


Ink Blots and Forget-Me-Nots

by gutsandglitter



Category: Good Omens, Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop & Tattoo Parlor, Crisis of Faith, Exes, Friends to Lovers to Enemies to Lovers, Getting Back Together, Human AU, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mentions of traumatic brain injury, No smut we slow burn like Jane Austen, angst and fluff and flowers and a pet snake named Alastor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2020-06-03 03:43:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 42,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19455634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gutsandglitter/pseuds/gutsandglitter
Summary: Ninth Circle Ink was hardly more than a stone’s throw from the flower shop; Aziraphale knew from past experience that it took less than thirty seconds to go from door to door (forty-five if you had to wait for a car to pass). It had been a perfect arrangement in the beginning, when they were just starting out.Owning a flower shop across the street from your boyfriend's tattoo parlor is fun and adorable. Owning a flower shop across the street from your ex-boyfriend's tattoo parlor? Not so much.Now complete!





	1. there are days every now and again I pretend I'm okay

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a fun play on the classic trope and whoops it turned into a long form angst fest interspersed with fluffy flashbacks (and just a dash of "reconciling one's sexuality with one's faith"). 
> 
> Thanks as always to my lovely beta aboxfullofdarkness!

**2019**

When Aziraphale first decided to become a florist, it had seemed like the perfect occupation for a kindhearted hopeless romantic. He envisioned his bouquets being part of grand, jubilant events — weddings, births, graduations, anniversaries — and the thought had warmed him to his core. He loved love in all its many forms, and he felt it was his calling to spread and celebrate it in whatever small ways he could. 

For the most part, his clientele was exactly what he had expected it to be. Over the course of his career he had done hundreds of weddings and funerals, and provided arrangements for countless parents, sweethearts, and friends. There were lilies for Easter and poinsettias for Christmas, and roses upon roses upon roses for Valentine’s Day. The cards he filled out with his delicate printing were always heartfelt -- _I’m sorry. Please say yes. Congratulations. I love you. Thoughts and prayers to you and your family._ Flowers were a love language all unto their own, and over the course of the past twenty five years Aziraphale had become extremely fluent.

But early in his career he had been dismayed to learn that a not-insignificant portion of his customer base was made up of people who were not happily in love. Flowers, in addition to serving as a love language, were also the universal last-ditch attempt at apology employed by adulterers and otherwise ill-behaved lovers. Aziraphale wouldn’t have minded this fact all that much, except so many of them felt the need to share their misdeeds with him, often in greatly unnecessary detail. These hapless customers were positively brimming over with regrets and excuses, and in their hour of anguish Aziraphale often ended up serving as an unwitting repository for much of the overspill. Many, many years ago he had harbored the desire to become a priest; that plan had fallen through for a multitude of reasons, and yet through some cruel twist of fate he still found himself taking confession from sinners. 

Case in point: the portly man in the ill-fitting suit who had spent the better part of the past hour catching Aziraphale up to speed on his marital problems.

“So it really wasn’t my fault, but Karen just won’t listen,” the man said. “I mean, the woman slipped me her room key, what was I supposed to do?” He scrubbed a hand at the perspiration on his upper lip. “You know how it is—“

“I assure you, I do not,” Aziraphale interrupted. He really, really didn’t know how it was, nor did he have any intention of finding out. “Now about the flowers-“

“Huh?” The man blinked several times, looking for all the world like a large, sweaty goldfish. He glanced around at the buckets of peonies and sunflowers and tulips and lilacs that lined the walls, seemingly surprised by the fact it was a flower shop and not a psychiatrist's office. “Oh, er, I dunno. What do you think she would like?”

A divorce, Aziraphale thought. He fixed the man with the kindest smile he could manage. “Well, traditionally hyacinths mean I’m sorry. And lilies of the valley are a symbol of humility—”

The man cut Aziraphale off mid-sentence. “Which are cheaper? Don’t wanna, you know, break the bank on it or anything.” He gave a short, sharp laugh that managed to echo off the walls of A.Z. Fell & Co. Floral design.

It took every ounce of Aziraphale’s restraint to not write “Leave Him!” on a card and slip it between the stems of poor Karen’s apology bouquet. But he resisted, because the man was to some degree repentant, and Aziraphale believed in forgiveness above all else. 

He focused instead on crafting the arrangement with as much love as he could muster, much as a grandmother might whilst baking cookies for her grandchildren. He laid each lily of the valley stem (technically the hyacinths were cheaper, but Aziraphale preferred the lilies and was willing to discount them for Karen’s sake) down with great care, adjusting the pearl drop buds so they wouldn’t break off or get crushed during transit. He wrapped them in a deep green paper that provided exquisite contrast against the blooms, then tied the whole bouquet up with a length of silvery-white ribbon. He then murmured a simple prayer over the arrangement, a prayer for the man to know genuine remorse and find the motivation to truly work on repairing his fractured marriage. It would probably take nothing less than a miracle for that to happen, but this was the best Aziraphale could do. 

The whole interaction left him feeling emotionally drained, though he was little more than a bystander in all of the drama. After the customer paid and left, Aziraphale slumped down and rested his forehead against the top of the till. He could have sold books or pastries or those fiddly little soaps with bits of herb in them, but no, he had to go and make a career out of selling bloody flowers. What a fool he’d been when he’d first started working at the shop -- an idealistic, starry-eyed, lovestruck fool. 

The bell above the door chimed, and Aziraphale straightened up so quickly he heard his spine pop. He relaxed again when he saw it was just Madam Tracy, his friend and sometimes-psychic. (Though he staunchly denied any belief in the supernatural or anything outside the realm of the Almighty. He was just...curious about her craft, that’s all .)

“Morning dearie,” Madam Tracy chirped. “The bakery had some of that strudel you like so much, so I picked you up a piece.” She held out a white paper bag and a cardboard cup he knew would contain cocoa.

“Oh bless you,” he said, accepting the proffered treats and taking a deep swig of cocoa. “Goodness, it’s been a morning. You just missed the most odious man, I still will never understand why anyone would commit adultery.” 

“Loneliness, usually,” Madam Tracy said, pulling a stool up beside the counter. “At least in my experience.”

She was a former lady of the night, who’d recently retired and married a peculiar reverend. (Reverend Shadwell was still not entirely convinced that Aziraphale’s relationship with her was platonic, and had made a hobby out of coming up with creative threats on bits of the florist’s anatomy were he to ever “lay a finger on the bonny retired Jezebel.”) Her career had left her with a wealth of amusing anecdotes, as well as seemingly limitless amounts of patience and empathy for all, especially those most prone to judgement and scorn from their fellow man. Aziraphale had always been called a soft touch, but Madam Tracy had the largest heart of just about anyone he’d ever known.

He hummed in quiet agreement, taking another sip of his cocoa.

Madam Tracy clapped her hands together and grinned. “Oh, you would not believe what Shadwell did yesterday!” she cried, before launching into a bizarre story about a pair of young Mormon missionaries who’d made the unfortunate mistake of knocking on the Reverend Shadwell’s front door. Her face lit up as she spoke about him -- a quiet, radiant glow that crept across her delicate features and made her appear ten years younger. By the time she finished her story, Aziraphale could have sworn the whole room had gotten brighter. 

“Heaven help me, I do love that man,” she said, chuckling softly.

Aziraphale smiled. “A lid for every pot, I suppose.”

“And how about you?” she asked, leaning over and giving his forearm a squeeze. “Any chance I could tempt you into letting me play matchmaker? Our neighbor’s son’s just split up with his husband, he’s about your age and a real dear.”

Aziraphale smiled and patted her hand. “No, no. Thank you, but no. You and I both know that was all over for me a long time ago.”

Madam Tracy frowned and glanced out the window at Ninth Circle Ink, the tattoo shop across the road which was owned and operated by Aziraphale’s ex-lover. “Such a pity you two can’t work things out. I’m sure you made a darling couple.”

Aziraphale laughed, not unkindly. “That’s one word for it. But no, after fifteen years I’m afraid it’s really not a matter of just working things out.”

“I know, but still,” she said. “I just want you to be happy, dear.”

“I am happy,” he replied. “I have my shop, I have my friends, I have access to exquisite pastry. I have a very full life.”

And for the most part, he meant it.

**********

Some time after Madam Tracy left, the bell above the front door chimed. A young boy of around eleven entered the shop, followed by a small black and white terrier. 

“Er, hi,” the boy said, glancing around the shop. “Is it alright if I bring my dog in? I hate leaving him outside when it’s hot like this.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale said brightly. “More than alright, I think I even have some treats around here somewhere.”

He rummaged through a few drawers, shuffling through decades of old receipts and sachets of plant food. He’d always made sure to have treats on hand for Poppy, Madam Tracy’s one-eyed Maltese, for whom he’d always had a soft spot. Poppy had shuffled off her fluffy mortal coil some months earlier, but Aziraphale hadn’t yet had the heart to throw out her stash of munchies.

“Aha, here we are,” he said, withdrawing a slightly-stale packet of tripe sticks. “Here you go, dear fellow.” He held one out for the terrier, who sniffed it warily before accepting it and allowing Aziraphale to scratch his ears.

“What’s his name?”

“Dog,” the boy said, stuffing his hands in his pockets. He looked vaguely confrontational, as if he were used to adults challenging his unusual choice of name.

Aziraphale, who was very sensitive to fellow unusually-named creatures, just nodded and smiled. “A fine name, quite practical.” He gave Dog one last pat and rose, folding his hands in front of himself. “Now how can I help you, young sir?”

The boy wrinkled his nose. “Call me Adam, I don’t think I’m a sir yet. But my dad sent me to get some flowers for my mum’s birthday.”

Aziraphale beamed. “Excellent, I’d say you’re in the right place then. What’s her favorite flower?”

Adam shrugged. “Er, blue ones? I think?”

Aziraphale felt physically pained by this response. Really, why primary schools had decided that botany wasn’t an important part of their curricula was beyond him. It was far more important than physical education, in his opinion. Or maths. 

Still, floral ignorance wasn’t too great a sin in the grand scheme of things. He snapped his fingers and gave the boy a conspiratorial smile. “You know, I received a shipment of some lovely periwinkle hydrangeas yesterday that I think might just fit the bill.”

Adam didn’t know what hydrangeas were, or what periwinkle meant, but he nodded anyway. “Yeah, that sounds okay.”

The bell above the front door chimed again and Aziraphale looked up, only to immediately grimace as Anthony J. Crowley, proud owner of Ninth Circle Ink, swaggered into the shop.

“Aziraphale, how the hell are you?” Crowley flashed the florist a mischievous grin that made the apples of his cheeks flush pink. 

Aziraphale hated that after all this time Crowley’s presence still had such an effect on him. He cleared his throat, aiming for an air of mild annoyance. “Crowley, to what do I owe the displeasure?”

Crowley shrugged. “Just thought I’d pop by. Can’t a man be neighborly?”

“Not when the man in question is you.”

Adam and Dog stood off to the side, watching this peculiar exchange with some interest. Well, Adam was watching the exchange, Dog was much more interested in his tripe stick.

Crowley’s grin grew wider. “You caught me. Just got another piece of your mail by accident.” He dropped a linens catalogue on the counter beside the till.

Aziraphale sighed. “Again? I thought you said you’d speak to the postman about that.”

“I did! Gave him a good piece of my mind, really tore him a new one. Some people just don’t learn, I guess.” He paused, then looked down. “When did you get a dog?”

“I didn’t. He belongs to Adam.”

Crowley blinked. “Who’s Adam?” 

Aziraphale gestured to the boy.

Crowley only just then seemed to register Adam’s presence. “Ah, Adam. Nice to meet you. Word of advice, this man’s a crap florist. Utterly rubbish bouquets. You’d do well to go somewhere else, anywhere else, really. Your girlfriend or boyfriend’ll thank you for it.”

“Crowley!”

“Right — girlfriend, boyfriend, or partner.” He wrinkled his nose and made a vague shrugging gesture. “That was a needlessly binary statement, sorry about that.”

“Crowley they’re for his _mother_!” Aziraphale cried. “And you really must stop telling my customers that I’m bad at my job, it isn’t funny.”

Crowley shrugged and leaned against the counter, a picture of faux-innocence. “I call ‘em like I see ‘em, angel.”

Aziraphale huffed and turned back to Adam. “As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, I have some hydrangeas in the back that I think will do nicely. If you’ll excuse me for a moment.” He turned on his heel and disappeared into the back room of the shop.

As soon as he was out of earshot, Crowley began inspecting a vase full of orchids sitting by the till. He lowered his glasses and took hold of one of the blooms, squinting at the slightly curled petals.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Aziraphale,” he muttered, grabbing a mister off one of the shelves and giving the orchids several spritzes. He then took a lap around the shop, examining each of the arrangements and giving several of them a thorough misting. “What would you do without me, love?” he muttered under his breath, just loud enough for Adam to hear (though the boy got the distinct impression that he wasn’t supposed to). 

Satisfied, Crowley set the mister back down on the shelf and resumed his previous slouch. He glanced over at Adam. “Not a word,” he muttered, pressing a finger to his lips.

Adam nodded slowly, mimicking the gesture. Not that he could have explained what he had seen if he wanted to. 

Aziraphale emerged from the storeroom with an armful of blue blossoms wrapped in white paper. “Didn’t I tell you they were lovely?” he said, holding them out to the confused boy. 

Adam made a vague noise of agreement as he took the bouquet, still staring at Crowley.

Aziraphale glanced between the two of them and frowned. “Oh Crowley, what have you done now? What did you say to him?” He turned to Adam, wringing his hands. “I’m awfully sorry if he offended you, my dear boy. He says dreadful things sometimes, but he doesn’t mean them. All bark and no bite, this one.” He shot Crowley a glare.

“I certainly do bite,” Crowley drawled, shifting against the counter and folding his arms. He raised his eyebrows, which caused his sunglasses to slide down a fraction of an inch, just enough for Aziraphale to catch a glimpse of his amber eyes. “If I remember correctly, you used to like that about me. Didn’t you, angel?”

Aziraphale’s cheeks burned. In an instant he was shot through with equal measures of shock and anger and arousal, which left him completely incapable of speech. His hands continued to twist uselessly in front of him.

Adam knew that was his cue to exit. He dropped a crumpled twenty pound note onto the counter and adjusted his grip on the bouquet. “Er, thanks for the flowers.”

Aziraphale swallowed and gave Adam a pained smile. “Of course, you’re very welcome. I do hope your mother enjoys them.”

The bell above the door rang out once as Adam and Dog made their way out, and then the shop was silent.

Aziraphale dropped his chin to his chest and squeezed his eyes shut.

“Must you do that? In front of my customers, no less?”

Crowley cocked his head. “Do what?”

“Flirt with me.”

Crowley held up his hands in a false innocent gesture. “Flirting? Me? Don’t flatter yourself, angel. Just reminiscing, that’s all. What can I say, I’m sentimental.”

“Oh yes, how silly of me to forget how _sentimental_ you are,” Aziraphale said, rolling his eyes. “Now could you just leave, please?”

“Alright, alright, whatever you say.” Crowley saluted him and sauntered out, deliberately putting a little extra swing in his hips as he did.

Aziraphale couldn’t help but watch as he made his way across the road and through the weathered front door of Ninth Circle Ink. It was hardly more than a stone’s throw from the flower shop; Aziraphale knew from past experience that it took less than thirty seconds to go from door to door (forty-five if you had to wait for a car to pass). It had been a perfect arrangement in the beginning, when they were just starting out. 

He remembered the first time a cheating husband had come into the shop and disclosed his transgressions (which were truly horrendous and bordering on criminal, even Madam Tracy would have found him irredeemable), how after the customer had left Aziraphale had flipped the Closed sign over and dashed across the street in ten seconds flat. Midway through recounting the story he’d begun to cry, and Crowley had taken him in his arms and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

_“It’s alright, angel. He’s a bastard, there’s a special place in hell for people like that.”_

_Aziraphale shook his head, feeling Crowley’s soft cotton t-shirt wrinkling beneath his cheek. “But I’m complicit, in a way. I’m helping him to try to win her back.”_

_Crowley snorted. “Yeah, I really don’t think a bunch of calla lilies are going to be enough to make up for all that. I mean, you’re a good florist, but you’re not that good.”_

_Despite everything, Aziraphale smiled. “I suppose you’re right,” he said, snuggling closer to Crowley’s chest._

The cover of the linens catalogue had torn slightly in Crowley’s rough grasp. Aziraphale absently traced the ragged edge with his index finger, swallowing as he felt the old hurt begin to surface. It was a dull ache, something palpable and persistent that settled just behind his breastbone and lingered with him throughout the rest of the day.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Rascal Flatts' "What Hurts the Most"


	2. oh, take me back to the start

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The backstory for these two ineffable idiots took on a life of its own so now the chapters are going to alternate between the past and present, each one will have the year clearly marked at the top.
> 
> CW for this chapter: mentions of death and illness, some internalized homophobia.

**1990**

It was the children that Aziraphale had the hardest time with. 

It’s easy to say “she’s in a better place” and “she’s at peace now” when you’re talking about someone’s 95 year-old grandmother. Less so when you’re talking about a preteen girl who’s spent half of her life in a sick bed. The death of a child flips the known world onto its side, turns words of comfort into words of cruelty and torment. It’s so fundamentally against nature that it tends to leave one feeling sick, as if suffering from some kind of uncanny, existential motion sickness. 

Aziraphale knew he should have been ready for it. As soon as he received word that his student pastoral placement would be at Saint Paul’s Hospital, he had begun mentally preparing himself for offering spiritual counsel to grieving loved ones. He memorized appropriate quotations and rehearsed prayers for every occasion; he’d even gone so far as to practice them in front of a mirror, just to make sure he didn’t come off as condescending or detached. 

But really, no one could ever properly prepare themselves for watching a child struggle to pull a dying breath into her tiny, cancer-riddled lungs. The first time it happened he felt paralyzed by shock and fear and sorrow, too useless to do anything besides stand off to the side dumbly while Gabriel performed her last rites. 

_And the prayer offered in faith will make the sick person well; the Lord will raise them up. If they have sinned, they will be forgiven._

As soon as she was pronounced dead, Gabriel excused himself, leaving Aziraphale alone with the grieving parents.

“Everything happens for a reason,” he’d told them. He knew it was true (or more accurately, knew they all _needed_ it to be true), but the words still felt flimsy and hollow as they rolled off his tongue.The mother began to cry harder, but the father nodded solemnly, squeezing the well-worn set of rosary beads in his fist.

After an agonizing hour of alternating between prayer and weak words of comfort, Aziraphale excused himself on the pretense of wanting to give the parents some time to themselves. He stepped out into the hallway, expecting to feel a wave of relief as soon as he shut the door behind himself, but somehow the hallway was even worse. The whole hospital reeked of illness and antiseptic, and everywhere he turned there seemed to be another reminder of human frailty and mortality — a nurse pushing an elderly woman with an oxygen tank, a doctor reading over a patient’s chart with a sorrowful look on his face, a frantic woman begging the receptionist to tell her where her husband was. He had never felt so small and powerless in his life. 

He all but ran for the exit, shoving the doors open with slightly more force than was strictly necessary and blinking against the bright January daylight. It felt wrong for the sun to be shining, considering the events of the day. When a child dies a painful, agonizing death, one would expect for nature to pay its respects, for the sky to open up and weep upon the surrounding countryside. But in practice that never seems to be the case, and that day the sun shone merrily on the hospital’s half-empty car park. Still, the air was cool and free from antiseptic, and after a few deep lungfuls he started to feel the frantic fog in his head begin to dissipate. 

“You look like you’re having a worse day than I am.”

Startled, Aziraphale turned and saw a man leaning against a cement pillar. He was tall and slender, with shoulder-length red hair and a battered leather jacket. Between the cigarette that was dangling from his left hand and the bored expression on his face, he should have looked devastatingly cool. However, the whole effect was somewhat marred by the white gauze wrapped around the crown of his head. 

“Er, no,” Aziraphale said, trying to compose himself. “Well, maybe. I’m not sure. It’s just all a bit...much.”

The stranger smirked. “Yeah, hospitals are like that sometimes.”

Aziraphale worried at his bottom lip. “There’s just so much hopelessness. I thought I’d be able to help more.”

“You a doctor?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “Priest. Well, priest in training. A seminarian.”

The stranger snorted. “And you thought you were gonna be helpful? The only way your lot could be helpful around here is if you stayed the fuck away and let the actual doctors do their jobs.”

Aziraphale bristled. “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me.”

Aziraphale felt hot, angry tears begin to prick at the corners of his eyes. He had just witnessed an unspeakable tragedy, the first in what would undoubtedly be a long line over the course of his career, and now this stranger felt the need to be hostile to him because of his faith? He wanted to cry, to scream, to lash out and say something equally devastating. 

But no, that wouldn’t be right. The man had clearly suffered some kind of head injury; it was understandable that he might be a bit irritable and ready to pick a fight. And Aziraphale knew that showing compassion and forgiveness to nonbelievers was part of the job description, so he blinked back the tears and tried to offer a kind smile. 

He gestured towards the bandages wrapped around the man’s head. “May I ask what happened?”

“I fell.”

Aziraphale blinked. “From where?”

“Off a roof. Couple of weeks ago I was trying to hang some bloody Christmas lights and my foot slipped.” The man took a deep drag of his cigarette and blew the smoke skywards in one long plume. 

“Should you really be smoking after a traumatic brain injury?” Aziraphale asked worriedly. “That doesn’t exactly seem wise.”

The man rolled his eyes, then winced as if the motion had pained him. He swallowed, then deepened his sneer. “Listen Padre, if I want medical advice I’ll ask a bloody doctor. If I want to start talking to an imaginary friend in the sky, you’re my man.” This time he didn’t even bother turning his head, but instead blew the smoke directly into Aziraphale’s face.

“That’s entirely uncalled for!” Aziraphale cried, waving a hand in front of his face to disperse the smoke. “I was just trying to be helpful.”

The man looked as if he was going to roll his eyes again, then thought better of it. “Whatever,” he muttered, turning back towards the car park.

Aziraphale was powerless against the tears this time. He spun around, unwilling to let the other man see how much his words had hurt him, and marched back into the hospital.

**********

He might have forgotten all about the encounter, had he not run into the man again two weeks later.

It had been another hellish day at the hospital, full of cruel examples of man’s inhumanity to man — stabbings, beatings, cases of domestic violence. Even Gabriel, who was usually unflappable to an eerie degree, seemed shaken by it, and suggested they meet up with a few of the other seminary students and mentors at a nearby pub. Aziraphale was not overly fond of drinking, but he didn’t think he could stand to be alone with his thoughts just yet, so he acquiesced. 

He regretted this decision almost instantaneously. The pub was noisy and overcrowded, filled with drunk university students celebrating the end of their exams, and right away he felt a headache begin to build just over his right temple. 

Gabriel made a beeline for a booth in the corner, where the others were already congregated over several pitchers of beer.

Aziraphale hated the taste of beer, so he dutifully made his way up to the bar, in the hope that they might have a halfway-decent selection of red wines.

A gaggle of women who appeared to be out for a hen party were clustered around the bar, all ordering complicated fruity cocktails. Aziraphale patiently waited his turn and rubbed at his temples, hoping to assuage his headache. The music from the jukebox was far too loud, some awful type of be-bop with a baseline that set his teeth on edge. He was so distracted by his own misery that he missed the fact that the hen party had moved and left a clear space for him in front of the bar.

“Oi! Bowtie, what’re you having?”

Aziraphale jolted and looked up, only to see the rude man from the hospital standing behind the bar, impatiently tapping his fingers against the wood. He was wearing sunglasses (which was odd, considering the fact they were indoors) and his russet hair was tied back in a ponytail, but other than that it was unmistakably him.

Aziraphale blinked several times. “Oh. It’s you.” 

The bartender raised his eyebrows. “Er, sorry. Have we met before?” 

“You yelled at me outside a hospital two weeks ago.”

The bartender grimaced. “Sounds about right. Don’t remember much from that week, but I’m sure I was an absolute prick. I’m sorry about that.”

Aziraphale was more than a little surprised by the apology, and very nearly flabbergasted by how earnest it sounded. He’d half expected another verbal assault, which would have been par for the course what with the month he was having. “Apology accepted,” he said, and he was fairly certain that he meant it.

“Remind me what your name was again?”

“I didn’t give it before, but it’s Aziraphale.”

The bartender stuck out his hand. “Nice to re-meet you. I’m Crowley.”

Crowley’s palm was warm and calloused, but his grip was surprisingly gentle. Aziraphale held onto it a moment longer than necessary, still stunned by this turn of events. To run into Crowley again while he was in a place to offer genuine contrition, just when Aziraphale felt like he was losing faith in humanity, seemed like too much of a coincidence. Not that he really believed in coincidences to begin with, since he knew that everything happened for a reason. _Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, I walked into his_ , he thought as he released Crowley’s hand. 

He ordered a (surprisingly decent) Syrah and went back to join his seminary cohorts, who were laughing about something Uriel had said. Over the course of the next hour he snuck periodic glances at Crowley, unsure of what the divine significance of their re-meeting meant. From time to time he tried to engage in his group’s conversation, but Gabriel interrupted him every time, either to correct him on a point (which did not need correcting) or to shift the conversation in an entirely different direction. 

Finally the din of the bar and the general unfriendliness of his cohorts got to be too much for him and he excused himself, making his way through the crowd and back out the front doors. He was hit with a sharp burst of cold air, which served as a brutal reminder of the fact he had no coat. Still, he thought, it was preferable to the interior conditions of the pub. He hoped Gabriel would tire of talking soon (though historically speaking this seemed highly unlikely) so they could return to Allen Hall and he could curl up in his room with a nice book and a cup of cocoa. 

He stamped his feet and blew on his hands, though he knew he was going to be fighting a losing battle against the bitterly cold night. 

“Long time no see.”

Aziraphale turned and was met with the deja vu-inducing sight of Crowley leaning up against the exterior wall of the pub with a cigarette in one hand. 

“Oh, hello again,” Aziraphale said, offering a small smile. “Taking a well-earned break from all the hustle and bustle?”

“Nah, shift just ended. Sort of.” He made a broad, completely indecipherable hand gesture. “Well, it will in an hour, but I think Hastur’s got everything under control in there. I’d just be slowing him down, really.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips, trying not to appear scandalized by the idea of shirking one’s duties. “How’s the head?” he asked.

“Fine, great. Brilliant really, better than it was before.” 

His words rang hollow, but Aziraphale did not push. He watched as Crowley lifted the cigarette to his lips and took a drag, transfixed by the man’s long, surprisingly elegant fingers. They were an artist’s hands, Aziraphale thought — nimble and dextrous, but no strangers to hard work.

Crowley saw Aziraphale staring and fished a battered pack of cigarettes out of his coat pocket. “Sorry, want one?”

“Thank you, no. I don’t smoke.”

Crowley nodded, returning the pack to his pocket. “That’s good, ‘s a filthy habit. Be a shame to ruin that nice smile of yours.”

The compliment caught Aziraphale off guard; no one had ever complimented him on his smile before. His stomach fluttered in a delicate, unfamiliar way and he looked down, suddenly very interested in his own shoes. He felt a strange pull towards Crowley, one that made him feel certain that there was some divine significance to their re-meeting. He just wasn’t sure what that significance was, or what he was supposed to do about it. 

After several moments of uneasy silence, Crowley changed the subject. “Speaking of which, why are you hanging out with that priest? The one with all the teeth.” Crowley took another drag of his cigarette and exhaled slowly. “Comes in here a lot, seems like a bit of a twat. Never leaves a tip.”

This was the least surprising news Aziraphale had heard all day, and he fought back the urge to snicker. “He’s my mentor,” he said, aiming for a polite and respectful tone. “I’m a seminary student. You really don’t remember anything from our first meeting, do you?” 

Crowley shook his head. “Fraid not. To be fair, it’s because I had a massive concussion, not because you’re not memorable.”

Were his cheeks and ears not already pink from the cold, Aziraphale would have blushed. Instead he locked his jaw, trying desperately to keep his teeth from chattering.

Crowley looked him up and down. “What happened to your coat?” he asked.

Aziraphale bit the inside of his cheek. The truth would certainly make Crowley laugh, but he didn’t think he’d be able to muster a convincing enough lie. After too long of a pause, he decided on honesty. “Gave it away,” he muttered.

Crowley’s eyebrows shot skyward. “You what?”

“I gave it away.” Aziraphale wrapped his arms more tightly around himself. “On our way over, there was a homeless woman who didn’t have one, so I gave her mine.”

“But now you don’t have a coat.”

“But now she does.”

Crowley opened his mouth to parry this, then seemed to think better of it. He wasn’t laughing. If anything, the look he was giving Aziraphale could almost be described as...charmed.

Aziraphale shivered again, and this time his teeth did clack together audibly. 

Crowley stubbed out his cigarette and pointed to a small battered Volkswagen that was parked with one wheel on the curb. “Get in.”

Aziraphale blinked. “What?”

“Get in, I’m giving you a lift home. Bad for business, having a priest freeze to death in front of the pub.” Crowley unlocked the car and opened the passenger side door. He held it open and tilted his head in invitation.

“I-“ Aziraphale shivered again. “I only just met you. How do I know you’re not going to murder me?”

Crowley shrugged. “You don’t. Guess you just have to trust me.”

Aziraphale hesitated for another moment, then slid into the passenger seat. He told himself it was the Christian thing to do, to think the best of everyone and trust that their intentions were noble. Plus it was cold, and it was a long walk back to Allen Hall.

They rode mostly in silence, save for the staticky old Queen tape that was playing. Aziraphale kept sneaking glances at Crowley, fascinated by the sharp contours of his profile and the way his hair seemed to glow every time they passed under a streetlight. Somewhere along the way Aziraphale stopped shivering, though the car had no heater.

All too soon they were pulling up outside the hall. Aziraphale fumbled with the door handle in the dark, and Crowley leaned across him to assist. For a few moments he was close, dangerously close. Close enough for Aziraphale to smell his cologne, something warm and spicy and altogether intoxicating. His breath caught in his throat, and another violent shiver wracked his delicate frame. This time, it had nothing to do with the cold.

Crowley’s hair was still tied back, and a sliver of moonlight fell across his pale throat, which was mere centimeters away from Aziraphale’s lips. He realized if he leaned forward ever so slightly, he could press a kiss to the soft spot behind Crowley’s ear. He felt a sudden urge to reach out, an urge to touch and grab and stroke and hold. Crowley was so close, so warm, and Aziraphale wanted to feel his bare skin against his own.

The door opened with a click and a rusty-hinged groan.

Crowley moved away and settled back into the driver’s seat as if nothing had happened. Nothing had in fact happened, he had simply opened a car door. But Aziraphale felt as if something monumental had occurred, a tectonic shift that had tipped his whole world onto its side. 

Crowley cocked his head to the side. “You alright?”

“Fine!” Aziraphale insisted, just a touch too loudly. “Everything’s just tickety-boo. Thank you for the ride.” He slid out of the car, shutting the door and hurrying to the hall without looking back. 

Back in his rooms, he collapsed onto the bed and stared intently at the ceiling. He could still see the pale patch of skin on Crowley’s throat, still feel the after-effects of his body’s visceral response to the proximity. 

There had been another moment like that once, when Aziraphale was about fourteen. He had been revising in the library with his friend Richard, whom he had known since primary school. They were laughing about something or other, and Richard had leaned over to tell him a secret. His breath had tickled the back of Aziraphale’s neck, sending shivers down his spine. Aziraphale had become acutely aware of how close Richard was, how easy it would be to turn his head and capture his friend’s lips with his own. 

He had panicked then, much as he had in the car with Crowley. He had dashed out of the library and avoided all of Richard’s calls and attempts at conversation in the halls. The feeling had frightened him beyond all reason — he knew it was wrong to feel those things, and he had worried it meant that something deep inside him was wrong. And to be experiencing it again now, just as he was starting his seminary studies, was even more frightening. 

Although now that he thought about it, perhaps his avoidance of Richard had been part of the problem. He hadn’t allowed himself to process those thoughts the first time they occurred, he had just pushed them down and let them fester. It would make sense for them to resurface now, when he was spending hours every day praying and soul searching. Scary stories always spoke of ghosts with “unfinished business.” Perhaps that incident in the library was his own spiritual unfinished business that he needed to attend to before he was truly ready to devote his life to God. 

Aziraphale chewed his lip as he considered this new perspective. By this logic, the answer to his problems now lay in _not_ avoiding Crowley. An exposure therapy of sorts. If he spent more time around Crowley, he would be able to reassure himself that it had just been a fluke, a passing “what if?” that came from a place of banal curiosity and had no bearing on his character whatsoever. Sunlight is the best disinfectant, and only by confronting the problem head-on would he be able to finally put these silly, irrational fears to rest.

So Aziraphale became a regular at the pub. He started coming in just before last call, and would help Crowley clean and lock up before heading to a nearby 24-hour cafe. Crowley would order coffee and he would order a pastry, and they would stay up talking into the wee hours of the morning. Crowley was quite intelligent and surprisingly well-versed on a variety of topics — history, music, literature, philosophy, even theology (he had been raised Catholic but left the church years before for undisclosed reasons). He felt at peace when he was with his new friend, and seeing him gave Aziraphale something to look forward to when he was having a particularly hard day at the hospital. 

Occasionally the thoughts would return — Crowley would laugh a certain way, or the light would catch his profile just so, and Aziraphale’s stomach would flip. But he tried to not let it upset him. It was just friendly fondness, he told himself. He’d never had a friend like Crowley before, so of course it was going to feel a little different from all his other friendships. And if he occasionally wondered what it would be like to kiss Crowley, that was just because he was so worried about the _idea_ of wanting to kiss him in the first place. He had gone to the library and checked out several psychology books, all of which said that intrusive thoughts were common for highly anxious people, and that usually they meant nothing at all. So he chose not to read anything into it, and allowed himself to just enjoy their budding friendship. 

But one day in late August, Aziraphale was called in to provide spiritual counsel for a family who had experienced an unspeakable horror, one which Aziraphale would never have dreamed even possible. Somehow he managed to keep himself together while he was with the family, offering them prayers and comfort and hugs. But as soon as he exited the main doors of the hospital, his body began to shake uncontrollably. The warm summer air wouldn’t fit properly into his tight, cramped lungs, and his hands and feet had gone to pins and needles. 

He made his way to the pub with zero conscious effort, each foot raised and lowered itself out of pure memory alone: _right left right left right left right_. He felt shell-shocked — no, not shell-shocked. An actual, physical mortar blast would have had less of an effect on him. This was something more, like his soul had become untethered from his body and left him nothing more than a soft, empty vessel. 

He struggled with the pub doors initially, finding that had been drained of all his upper body strength. After about a minute he managed to crack them open just enough to be able to slip his body inside. It was quieter than usual, which seemed like a small blessing as he made his way up to the bar. 

Crowley’s face lit up as soon as he saw him. “Aziraphale! Wasn’t expecting to see you tonight. What’s up?”

“I…” Aziraphale swallowed. “I believe I could use a drink.”

Crowley took in Aziraphale’s haggard expression, his wide eyes and still-trembling frame, and his face grew solemn. 

“Alright, everybody out,” he hollered. “Seriously, we’re closed. Get the hell out of here.”

“But it’s only eight thirty!” one of the patrons cried.

“No it’s not, it’s eleven-thirty. You’re just too drunk to tell time properly, go home and sober up, mate,” Crowley replied. 

After he had shepherded all of his patrons out using a combination of bribery and sheer physical intimidation, he pulled out a bottle of whisky and didn’t stop pouring drinks until they were both well and truly soused. Aziraphale could count on one hand the number of times he had been drunk, and after a while he began to wonder why that was. He felt so much calmer, so much lighter. The events of the day faded into a tolerable blur, and he just felt warm and safe and sleepy. 

He must have nodded off for a few minutes, because the next thing he knew he was being gently shaken awake by Crowley.

“C’mon Aziraphale, I’m gonna walk you home.”

Aziraphale pouted. “Walk? Why can’t we take your car?”

“Because I’ve been drinking too, remember? I know my car is rubbish, but I’m not looking to wrap it around a tree tonight. Fresh air’ll do you good, too.” He took Aziraphale by the hands and eased him out of the booth. 

“Mmphm,” Aziraphale mumbled. He tried to take a step and stumbled, only to feel Crowley’s arms wrap around his middle and catch him before he fell.

“Christ, you’re a lightweight,” he said.

“D-don’t take the Lord’s name in vain, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, though the slurring took all the weight from his admonishment. 

“Deepest apologies, Father,” Crowley muttered, holding the front door open for him. 

He still had one arm wrapped around Aziraphale’s waist, ostensibly for support. It was nice, Aziraphale thought. Being held by Crowley was nice. 

He didn’t realize he’d spoken this thought out loud until he heard Crowley’s soft laugh. 

“Yeah, can’t say I mind it much either. Not exactly how I pictured it happening, but I’m not complaining.” 

It took a solid minute for Crowley’s words to register in Aziraphale’s alcohol-riddled mind. He slowed to a stop, unable to continue walking while simultaneously processing the gravity of the situation. 

“You...you’ve pictured holding me?”

Crowley’s eyebrows knit together, and Aziraphale realized he wasn’t wearing his sunglasses. It was a shame that he wore them so much, he had such lovely eyes. 

“Er, yeah. Sort of, a little. Did-” Crowley cleared his throat, suddenly nervous. “Did you?”

“Yes.” Aziraphale was too stunned to realize he had just revealed his deepest secret. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening.

Crowley’s answering grin was warm and slightly bashful. He tipped his head forward — _when had he gotten so close? And why had Aziraphale not noticed the arm that was still wrapped firmly around his waist?_ — and leaned in, gently brushing the tip of his nose against Aziraphale’s. 

That delicate, tender touch sent a sharp shock through Aziraphale’s system. Reality came crashing through the whisky fog with a violent fury, shattering the spell of the moment. “I know what’s happening,” he said slowly. 

Crowley paused, lips just shy of touching Aziraphale’s. “I should hope so,” he murmured. “Seems fairly obvious.” 

Aziraphale took a small step back, detaching himself from Crowley’s embrace. “This is a test.”

“What?”

“You were sent to tempt me, to test my faith.”

Crowley choked out a laugh. “Was I?”

“Yes.” Aziraphale’s thoughts were still swimming, and it took significant effort to try to contain them. “And it won’t work. I am...not going to give into temptation.”

Crowley’s smirk returned. “Are you saying that I’m heaven sent?” he asked, batting his eyelashes. 

“No. Hell-sent.” Aziraphale blinked several times, as if it might help bring his thoughts back into focus. “Either way, it won’t work.”

“Are you so sure about that?” Crowley’s eyes were twinkling with equal parts mirth and mischief. He leaned forward and raised a calloused hand towards Aziraphale’s face, eliciting a soft gasp from the other man. Crowley gently ran the pad of his thumb along Aziraphale’s bottom lip once, twice, three times.

The touch was so delicate, an act of intimacy like nothing Aziraphale had ever experienced before. He had never been so aroused in his life, so much so that he thought he might faint from it. But before he had time to react, Crowley dropped his hand and took a step back. Aziraphale found himself leaning forward, as if to chase the warmth of the other man’s thumb.

Crowley laughed softly. “That’s what I thought.” He took another step back and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Look, believe what you want, but I’m not trying to get you to do anything you don’t want to do. I know it’s not, well...priestly and all that. Just forget I said anything, it doesn’t matter. Here, lemme just get you a cab.”

Aziraphale swallowed hard. He thought this would be a triumphant moment, one where he would feel righteous and proud for having resisted temptation and shown that he was not a sinner. Instead, he just felt crestfallen and a bit queasy.

Crowley flagged down a passing taxi and helped Aziraphale into the back seat. He started to close the door, then paused.

“Listen,” he said, scrubbing a hand across the back of his neck. “ If you do ever decide that you want to...er, be _tempted_ , you know where to find me.” His accompanying smile seemed playful, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. 

He shut the taxi door and stepped back onto the curb, leaving Aziraphale alone and more confused than ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Coldplay's "The Scientist"


	3. i say a little prayer for you

**2019**

The girl couldn’t have been a day over 16. She was petite, with a shock of bright blue hair that kept falling in her face and a pair of combat boots that seemed about two sizes too big. She looked apprehensive as she approached the counter, picking her way around the various displays that took up the majority of the shop’s floorspace.

Aziraphale had been so caught up in gossiping with Madam Tracy — one of her old clients had just become a parishioner at Reverend Shadwell’s church — that he almost didn’t hear the girl come in. He tucked his teacup underneath the counter as she approached and gave a warm smile.

“Good morning!” he said cheerily. “How can I help you?”

The girl bit her lip and tugged on the frayed sleeve of her hoodie. “Hi. I’ve um, I’ve never done this before. How does it go?”

“Well, if you’re looking for an arrangement, why don’t you start by telling me what the occasion is?” 

The girl’s cheeks turned scarlet, and Aziraphale got the distinct feeling he had somehow asked the wrong question. He shot Madam Tracy a worried look, but she just smiled and shook her head at him. She turned back to the girl, who looked to be on the verge of tears. 

“What’s your name, love?”

The girl swallowed and offered a weak smile. “Cassidy.”

Madam Tracy beamed. “What a lovely name.” From anyone else it would have sounded like a cheap forced compliment, but from her it was nothing but genuine. “Well Cassidy, if you’ve never bought proper flowers before, you’re in for a treat. Mr. Fell is nothing short of a miracle worker, and I’m sure he can help you with whatever it is you need. He’s the reason my husband and I got together, you know.”

This was factually accurate, but contrary to her insinuations it had nothing to do with Aziraphale’s floral arrangements. (It had everything to do with a complicated series of events involving a botched exorcism, an AirBnB rental in Wandsworth, three cases of mistaken identity, and a hedgehog named Reginald, but that was a story for another day.)

Cassidy looked from Madam Tracy to Aziraphale, then back down at her shoes. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be so awkward about this. It’s just uh, I have a date. A first date with a—um, someone who’s really special. And I really want to get it right, with nice flowers and the whole deal.”

Aziraphale recognized the hesitation before the word someone, the all too familiar knee-jerk reaction to shy away from pronouns or any sort of gender marker. How many times had he himself done that, stuttered over a “he” or said “my friend” instead of “my love”? 

He smiled at her, trying to evidence his understanding as best he could. “What’s their name?” 

Cassidy hesitated for a moment before answering. “Sarah.” The corners of her lips ticked upwards, as if she couldn’t so much as say the name without smiling. “She’s amazing, and I really want it to be special for her. But um, I don’t really have much money, I don’t even really know how much a proper bouquet costs…”

Aziraphale’s heart swelled. Now this, _this_ was why he had become a florist. To help encourage young love, to be a part of that magic and help coax something new and beautiful into the world. He clapped his hands together. “Oh don’t worry about money, the first bouquet is on the house.”

Madam Tracy choked oh her tea. 

Cassidy blinked. “It er, really?”

“Shop policy,” Aziraphale said, shooting Madam Tracy a stern look as she smirked into her cup. At this point it was very nearly not a lie, his accounting books could attest to his alarmingly frequent tendency to under-charge and give arrangements away.

Cassidy’s smile alone was worth it though. “Oh that’s brilliant, thank you so much!” 

“Now, what’s Sarah’s favorite flower?” Aziraphale asked.

“Um, she really likes daisies,” Cassidy said. “So could you do just like, a simple daisy arrangement?”

Aziraphale smile grew impossibly wide. “I think that can be arranged.” He turned and made his way into the back room, still beaming.

“So, tell me more about this young lady of yours,” he heard Madam Tracy say as he rounded the corner.

Daisies were Aziraphale’s favorite flowers. He rarely got to work with them; most people considered them too cheap and too common to request for a professional arrangement. But they never failed to make him smile, there was something so comforting and warm about them. They reminded him of summer, of sunshine and picnics and the luxurious feeling of having nowhere to be and no one to answer to. 

For Sarah’s arrangement he selected the biggest, freshest blooms he had in stock and took care to fan out the tender white petals so that none overlapped. He then threaded through a few bright tufts of goldenrod for color, and finished the whole arrangement off with a few sprigs of pitta negra. As he tied the stems off with a length of yellow satin ribbon, he winged a quick prayer to Saint Dwynwen, the patron saint of lovers.

_Blessed Saint Dwynwen, you who knew pain and peace, division and reconciliation. You have promised to aid lovers and you watch over those whose hearts have been broken…_

It was almost muscle memory at this point, after years of beseeching the saint to watch over customers both young and old. But Aziraphale felt a quiet desperation creeping into his voice as he prayed now, something unfamiliar that made his hands tremble. He thought of how many moments of courage it must have taken for Cassidy to get to this point. If the mere act of buying flowers had made her this anxious, what must it have been like for her to realize she had feelings for Sarah? To ask her out on a date? And yet she had done so anyway, which was so spectacularly brave it made Aziraphale’s heart ache. Then again, that was the very essence of love, wasn’t it? One act of bravery after another, saying “I know the risks, but it’s worth it” day after day after day after day.

 _Please, Saint Dwynwen_ , he thought, cutting a sheet of white butcher paper to wrap the bouquet in. _Don’t let that be in vain. Please, let this story have a happy ending._

When he came back out to the shop front, he was unsurprised to see Cassidy and Madam Tracy chatting like the oldest and dearest of friends. The woman had a remarkable ability to put people at ease within moments of meeting them; the first time she had come into the shop, Aziraphale had found himself telling his whole life story in one sitting. She might have missed her calling as a therapist, though he didn’t think the hourly rate would have been nearly as good as what she had been making in her prime.

Cassidy’s eyes grew wide when she saw the arrangement in his hands. “It’s perfect,” she breathed. “Oh, Madam Tracy was right! You really are a miracle worker.”

Aziraphale smiled gently. “I just hope Sarah enjoys them, and that the date goes well.”

Cassidy cradled the flowers to her chest, running her fingers down one of the stems. “Me too.”

She made her way back out of the shop, but not before promising to stop by Madam Tracy’s the following week for a tarot reading.

After the door had shut behind her, Aziraphale elbowed his friend. “I thought you stopped doing tarot appointments when you became Mrs. Reverend Shadwell.”

“What Shaddy doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” she said primly. “Besides, what about you? _First bouquet’s on the house_ ,” she mimicked.

“Touché.”

“Can’t help but be soft about first loves, I suppose,” she said wistfully.

Aziraphale hummed in agreement, reaching for his abandoned cup of tea. “No, I don’t suppose you can.”

**********

A few hours later the bell above the door chimed, and Aziraphale was surprised to once again see Adam and Dog shuffling into the shop.

“Er, hi,” Adam said. “I’m not sure if you remember me, I came in a few days ago.”

Aziraphale, who had always prided himself on his impeccable memory for names and faces, greeted him warmly. “Of course, good to see you again, Adam. And Dog,” he added, gesturing to the boy’s black and white shadow. “I suppose you want another treat?” 

Dog did in fact want another treat, and eagerly accepted the proffered tripe stick. He was slightly less enthusiastic about the ear scratches that followed, but he allowed them.

“I er, just wanted to come by and say thank you for the flowers,” Adam said. “Mum loved them.”

Aziraphale beamed and clasped his hands together. “Oh, I’m so glad! I knew hydrangeas would be just the thing. I never get to hear people’s reactions to my bouquets, it was very kind of you to stop in and tell me that.”

Adam shrugged. “I was just in the neighborhood. Had some time to kill.”

This was a lie. Over the course of the past week he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the exchange he had witnessed at the shop. The two men were so peculiar, and polar opposites — the kindly florist who dressed like a character from one of those BBC miniseries Adam’s mother loved so much, and the man called Crowley who dressed like a rockstar and wore sunglasses indoors. They were so unlike any adults Adam had ever encountered, he found himself wanting to know more about them and their strange, vaguely hostile relationship.

Aziraphale smiled brightly. “Well, if you still have time you’re more than welcome to stay, I always enjoy having company. I think I have some human treats around here too, if you’re amenable.”

“Uh, sure,” Adam said, perching on Madam Tracy’s stool. This was going to be easier than expected. He had thought he would need to come up with some kind of elaborate excuse as to why he needed to hang around the shop, but he had underestimated the florist’s hospitality.

Aziraphale popped into the back room and flicked on the electric kettle he kept next to the vase cupboard. He fished a tin of biscuits out from under a pile of ribbon cuttings and returned to the storefront.

Adam was in the process of examining the haphazard stack of books that had been left on the counter — _A Victorian Flower Dictionary, The Language of Flowers, The Botanical Bible, Folklore and Symbolism of Plants and Trees, Herbarium/Verbarium_. It was an odd assortment, though all of them appeared well-loved, riddled with dog ears and sticky notes and scraps of paper repurposed as bookmarks. 

“What’re all these for?” Adam asked.

Aziraphale smiled. “Those are books on flower meanings. My dear friend’s cousin just had cosmetic surgery, and we were debating what sort of arrangement would best say _congratulations on the new nose_.”

“What did you end up deciding on?”

“Amaryllis, which symbolize splendid beauty, or worth beyond beauty.” He shrugged. “I thought it was appropriate, celebratory but still serving as a reminder that our appearances aren’t the be-all and end-all of our existence.”

Adam flipped through the book closest to him, fascinated by the illustrations and explanations. “So it’s like a secret message?” 

Aziraphale considered this, then nodded. “I suppose it is, in a way. You’re welcome to borrow that, if you’d like,” he offered, gesturing to the book in Adam’s hands. 

“Really?” Adam looked delighted. “Thank you. I’ll bring it back soon, I promise.” The boy was already devising a new game for his friends to play, a spy game that involved sending coded messages using flower names.

True to his word, Adam came back a few days later to return the book, only to end up walking out with two more. This became a regular occurrence; Aziraphale had a veritable lending library of botanical texts, and Adam had an insatiable appetite for new, slightly arcane knowledge.

After a while, he became a fixture at A.Z. Fell and Co. He would come in every few days, usually spending an hour or so talking to Aziraphale or else helping out with menial tasks around the shop. He enjoyed how grown up it felt to be entrusted with responsibilities like sweeping stem cuttings and working the cash register, as well as having an adult in his life who didn’t talk down to him. Aziraphale enjoyed the company, and Dog enjoyed the treats, so it was a beneficial arrangement for all parties involved.

Though unbeknownst to Aziraphale, Adam was also spending some of his time over at Ninth Circle Ink, where he was allowed to watch Crowley work so long as he “didn’t ask stupid questions” and “kept his damned dog out of the way.”

**********

“Aziraphale, I got another piece of your mail!” Crowley hollered, sauntering into the shop one sweltering morning in July. “I think at this point we’re just gonna have to kill the postman. He’s really given us no other choice, and it’ll send a message to the others.”

“Hello Crowley,” Aziraphale said coolly, snatching the phone bill from the other man’s hand.

Adam waved to Crowley from his perch on the stool. “Hi Mr. Crowley.”

“Adam, what are you doing here?” Crowley asked, slouching against the counter. “You know it’s much more fun over in my shop. Hell, anywhere’s more fun than this place.”

Aziraphale was aghast. “Crowley, he’s eleven! You’ve been letting him spend time in your shop?”

“It’s a tattoo parlor, not a brothel,” Crowley drawled. “And it’s not like I’m inking him, I told him he has to wait until he’s eighteen. Or gets a somewhat convincing fake ID.” 

Aziraphale shot him the most withering look his delicate features could manage. 

“What’s a brothel?” Adam asked.

“It’s a—“

Without thinking, Aziraphale reached out and clapped a hand over Crowley’s mouth. The action surprised them both, and for a tense moment they just stared at each other. Crowley let out a surprised huff of breath through his nose, and the air tickled the back of Aziraphale’s knuckles.

The florist yanked his hand back as if it had been burned. He let out a small, shaky breath and turned back to Adam. “It’s a made up word, just a silly old inside joke between Mr. Crowley and myself.”

Crowley gave a derisive snort, but said nothing.

“Oh.” Adam looked like he wanted to ask more, but held back. 

Behind the counter, Aziraphale flexed the hand that had been pressed against Crowley’s lips. He had forgotten how soft the other man’s skin was, how smooth the straight-razor shaves he insisted upon left his chin and cheeks.

Crowley stood up and stuck his hands in his pockets. “Anywaaay,” he said, elongating the vowels to an unnecessary degree. “Better get back to my shop. Adam, come by anytime, maybe if you ask nicely I'll give you a half-sleeve.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips and made a “hmph” sound in the back of his throat.

Crowley smirked. “Don’t look so put out, you’re welcome too. Your back piece need any touch-ups?”

“No, it’s fine,” Aziraphale said tightly. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Adam’s jaw drop, and he knew that he was undoubtedly in for an uncomfortable conversation about the tattoo he kept hidden beneath so many layers of linen and tweed.

“Fair enough.” Crowley sauntered to the door and turned the handle, then paused. He shot Aziraphale a wicked look, and the florist’s stomach sank. 

“Oh, and Adam?” He said sweetly. “A brothel is a whorehouse, a place of business for prostitutes. Knowledge is power.” With that, he was gone.

Aziraphale buried his head in his hands. At this point he wondered if Crowley was playing a game, timing how quickly he could fluster Aziraphale each time he came into the shop. If that was the case, he had certainly just beat his own record.

The shop was quiet for several long moments, save for the quiet ticking of the clock on the wall. Aziraphale pressed the heels of his palms against his eyelids, applying just enough pressure to see stars. 

Eventually, Adam broke the silence. “Why do you and Mr. Crowley hate each other so much?” he asked.

This question seemed to catch Aziraphale by surprise. He dropped his hands and blinked several times, trying to clear his field of vision. “Hate each other? What makes you think we hate each other?”

Adam frowned. “Don’t you? You two are always arguing, and when he leaves you always seem so sad.”

Aziraphale blushed, though he shouldn’t have been surprised. He’d never had much of a poker face. “No, my dear boy, I don’t hate Mr. Crowley. He may very well hate me, he has every right to. You see, we used to-well, we were…” he trailed off, unsure of how to have this conversation with an eleven year-old. 

“Was he your boyfriend?”

Aziraphale choked out a laugh. He had underestimated how worldly today’s children were; perhaps this conversation wouldn’t be all that difficult after all. “Yes, I suppose that would be the appropriate term.”

“Was it because you’re both boys? Were other people being mean to you?” Adam began spinning the seat of the stool back and forth, kicking his feet out at odd intervals. “When Pepper had a crush on another girl in our class, Derek called her a rude name and she punched him in the stomach and he left her alone after that. I bet if Mr. Crowley just punched whoever it was in the stomach, they’d leave you alone too.”

“Ah, no,” Aziraphale said slowly. Part of him wondered if he should be offended by the implication that he was incapable of protecting himself from homophobia. Not that he condoned violence, but still. “That wasn’t it. Well, that wasn’t entirely it. And it’s _whomever_.” 

Adam rolled his eyes. “More like _whatever_. So what was it?”

Aziraphale sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s...complicated. In any event, some harsh words were said, and we parted ways.”

“You didn’t go very far though,” Adam pointed out.

Aziraphale had to smile at that. “No, I don’t suppose we did.” 

When Adam asked Crowley for his version of events, he received a very different response.

“Yep, you’re exactly right. I hate him, hate his guts. Hate his stupid face and his stupid hair and OH don’t get me STARTED on his stupid dimples! Can’t stand them. Or him. Not sure why we’re even still talking about him, he’s not worth talking about at all, ever. And I thought I told you about my no stupid questions policy! Now get out of my shop, can’t you see I’m busy? ” he yelled, gesturing to the empty parlor. 

Needless to say, Adam was not convinced by this performance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Aretha Franklin's "I Say a Little Prayer for You"


	4. hush my darling, don’t you cry / quiet angel, forget their lies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for this chapter: religion-related homophobia

**1990**

Aziraphale was ill the next day, queasy and tired to a degree he hadn’t previously thought possible. He was lightheaded but felt like his limbs had somehow grown heavier, and his thoughts spun around his skull like passengers on some demented merry-go-round. He stayed in bed all day, sick and miserable with what he assumed was his first hangover.

But the feeling continued well into the next day, and the day after that as well. By the eighth day he had twigged the fact that it was likely not a hangover, and in the absence of fever he could only assume that it was not the flu either. It also did not escape his notice that his symptoms seemed to get significantly worse every time he thought about what had happened with Crowley. 

_You were sent to tempt me, to test my faith._

Aziraphale couldn’t stop thinking about the pained look in Crowley’s eyes as he shut the taxi door. It wasn’t a look of anger, or one filled with the sorrow of rejection. It was more a look of melancholy understanding; like he had been in that situation before but had still allowed himself to hope for something better this time around.

He was not some malevolent tempter, some lascivious and perverse cretin who spat in the face of God. He was just...Crowley. For all of his macho bluster, Aziraphale didn’t think he had a malicious bone in his body. He was an artist and a philosopher who was a little rough around the edges, a dry-humored and sometimes-prickly bartender who was remarkably soft when it came to children. 

And Aziraphale. 

Even after he had been insulted, after being rejected and told that he was hell-sent, Crowley had still flagged down and paid for a cab for Aziraphale, because he wanted to make sure he made it home safely. And yet he was supposed to be the one in need of saving? It seemed wrong, unjust in a way Aziraphale never thought his religion could be. 

For the first time in his life, Aziraphale had doubts. Doubts about himself, doubts about his church, doubts about his future. He had once prided himself on his perfect faith, on his belief in evidence of things not seen, and he now found himself questioning everything he had ever thought to be true. Nothing seemed concrete or provable anymore, and without his unshakeable moral compass the world seemed topsy-turvy. He had tripped down a rabbit hole and taken a wrong turn straight through a looking glass, and he was now half-expecting a surprise visit from a hookah-smoking caterpillar.

When it came down to it, there were only four facts of which he could be completely sure. The first (and possibly most obvious) was that what had happened with his childhood friend Richard was not an anomaly, and his attempts at “exposure therapy” had been a piteous failure. The second was that Aziraphale had feelings, romantic feelings, for Crowley (and strong ones at that). The third was that, between the Church’s stance on same-sex attraction and his vow of celibacy, fact number two proved to be a real problem for his career in the priesthood. And the last was that, though these revelations had kicked up a veritable hornet’s nest of feelings in his chest, he couldn’t bring himself to be truly sorry for any of it.

This last fact was the one he found to be most troubling. Though he prayed endlessly for God to change him, to make him different, he couldn’t bring himself to ask for forgiveness. It was peculiar, seeing as forgiveness was the foundation of his religion and was something he believed was promised to all who were repentant. But Crowley was such a remarkable human being, easily one of the Almighty’s greatest creations. How could Aziraphale in good conscience apologize for caring for him, in any capacity? 

Weeks passed, and no matter how much scripture he read or prayers he whispered, he still felt lost and unsure. If anything, he felt as if he was moving backwards, like he somehow had less clarity on the situation than he’d started out with. He spent night after sleepless night tossing and turning as his mind vaulted from one image to another — falling asleep in Crowley’s arms, being rejected by the church, making love to Crowley, being seen as a deviant and pushed to the far corners of polite society, building a life and a home with Crowley, turning his back on Crowley and continuing on with his studies as if nothing had happened. His train of thought was merciless and unpredictable at night, spiraling further and further out of control. It made him think of the old carnival barker’s line: _round and round and round it goes, where it stops, nobody knows._

After a while, the exhaustion and mental fog began to catch up with him during the day. He found himself wandering the halls of the hospital aimlessly, forgetting which rooms he had been assigned to and unsure of what he was supposed to be doing. He forgot people’s names, his mind went blank during simple prayers, he stumbled over hail Mary after hail Mary. It all came to a head the day he accidentally gave last rites to someone who was very much alive and would likely be so for the considerable future (she was a 32 year-old recovering from a successful appendectomy; his real patient, a 97 year-old man in heart failure, had been in the next room over). 

Clearly, this could not continue. That night he decided he needed to do something, needed to talk to someone other than God about his problem. He also decided that the only person he could safely talk to about it was Crowley. Had he been in his right mind, he would have realized what a terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad idea this was; as it stood, he was too sick with worry and exhaustion and frustration to second-guess it.

So at two in the morning he found himself shuffling out of his room and down the hall to the communal pay phone. Without giving it much thought, he reached out a shaking hand and dialed Crowley’s number. He had no idea what he was planning to say, or if the other man was even home, he just knew he needed to reach out and that this was the safest way to do so. 

Crowley picked up on the second ring, muttering something that only vaguely sounded like “Hello.”

Aziraphale froze.

“Hello?”

Panic overwhelmed his senses and paralyzed his tongue.

“Okay, I’m hanging up now.”

“No, wait, Crowley-“

“Aziraphale?”

“Yes.” Aziraphale took a deep breath and gripped the phone just a little bit tighter. “I’m sorry to call so late. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“Of course not,” Crowley said softly. “Is everything okay?”

The concern in his voice made Aziraphale’s breath catch in his throat. 

“I er, yes. No.” He closed his eyes. “I’m not sure.”

“Do you want me to come pick you up?”

“No, no.” Aziraphale twirled the phone cord around his finger. He didn’t know what he wanted, he just knew that hearing Crowley’s voice was already calming him in a way nothing else had in weeks.

“Okaaaay,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale could picture the way his brows were likely knit together. “What’s up then?”

Aziraphale hesitated. “I just, well, I...“ he trailed off as he realized how poorly thought-out this plan had been. What was he supposed to say, _Yes, remember when you tried to kiss me? I’m afraid it’s all gone downhill from there, and seeing as I don’t have any other friends, would you mind terribly giving me some objective advice on what I should do about my attraction to you?_

“Aziraphale?”

He felt a gentle fluttering sensation in the pit of his stomach. Goodness, had anyone ever said his name with such tenderness before? Crowley’s voice caressed each syllable as if it were a prayer, something wonderful and deserving of reverence. 

“Tell me about your day,” Aziraphale said quietly.

“My day?”

“Yes. It was your day off, wasn’t it? What did you get up to?”

“Oh.” Maybe he was imagining it, but Aziraphale thought he could hear a smile in his voice. “Yeah sure, alright. I actually just went to the arts supply store, I used to be really big on sketching before I quit school and kind of want to get back into it…”

Aziraphale closed his eyes again and leaned up against the wall, feeling a warm sense of relief wash over him as he listened to Crowley speak. He could have been reading the phone book and Aziraphale would have been entranced all the same. The rough timbre of his voice, the distinct cadence, the way he drew out his vowels for confusing and unnecessary emphasis — all of it had become intimately familiar over the course of the past few months. Though Aziraphale knew that reaching out like this was dangerous, possibly for both of them, Crowley’s voice felt like a balm for his soul. For a moment, just a moment, he allowed himself to enjoy it without question or pause. 

But that moment was soon shattered by an insistent tap on his shoulder. Aziraphale jumped and turned to see a grumpy-looking Father Sandalphon wrapped in a ratty yellow dressing gown. 

“Personal phone use is allowed between the hours of 8am and 10pm only,” he said sharply. “You know that. Who’re you talking to at this time of night anyway?”

Aziraphale swallowed and held the phone away from his ear “It’s er, just a friend.” He pulled the receiver close again and cut Crowley off mid-sentence. “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I have to go.”

“Alright.” Crowley paused. “Will you...is there any chance I’ll see you again, d’you think?”

Aziraphale looked down into Father Sandalphon’s harsh, beady eyes, feeling the disapproval coming off him in waves. “I don’t know,” he said truthfully, then hung up the phone.

**********

He rehearsed it for days in advance. He cycled through every possible wording he could use, every reaction he could possibly receive, every reaction he could possibly have to the reaction he received. He knew he was playing with fire — hellfire, really — but the frustration and sleep deprivation were driving him mad, and he really did need to talk to someone about it. Even if he had to go about it in a terribly oblique way.

Coming to Gabriel with his problems had, historically speaking, never proven to be a good idea, but he was still an authority figure in the church, one whose opinions Aziraphale (mostly) respected. If anyone could shed light on the issue, it would be him.

So during their next one-on-one meeting in Gabriel’s office, Aziraphale steeled himself, waiting for Gabriel to stop talking long enough for him to be able to get a word in. He had to stick his hands under his thighs to keep himself from fidgeting, trapping them against the hard metal of his chair. 

Gabriel’s office was unusually minimalist, even for a priest. The modern furniture clashed terribly with the elegant tudor architecture of Allen Hall, all stark aluminium and glass up against aged parquet floors and linen wallpapers. Even the view was bleak and depressing; it sat on the ground floor and both windows faced the half-empty car park. Usually Aziraphale tried to spend as little time there as possible, if he could help it. 

He took a deep breath, holding it in for five counts before exhaling for five counts. He could do this. It was a simple question, just an ordinary conversation with his advisor. No reason to worry, no need to panic. He would get his answer, and then be able to lay the whole matter to rest.

Gabriel finally paused in his incessant monologue and looked down at his watch. “Anyways, that’s our time for today. Just remember what I said about Eziekiel, alright?”

Aziraphale, who hadn’t absorbed a single word Gabriel had said in the past half hour, nodded. “Yes, of course.” He feigned moving to stand up, then sat back in his chair. He thought this was a very clever touch, one which really sold the casualness of the conversation. “Actually, before we adjourn, I did have a theological question I wanted to ask you. Purely from an academic standpoint,” he added.

Gabriel groaned. “You and your questions.”

Aziraphale frowned. “What about my questions?”

“You ask too many of them. Gonna get you in trouble one of these days.”

The color drained from Aziraphale’s face as he struggled to think of a way to respond. Was asking questions a bad thing? Didn’t the other students ask questions? Had he already set himself up for trouble, established himself as a bad egg? 

Gabriel sighed and steepled his fingers under his chin. “Fine, what is it?”

Aziraphale swallowed, trying to regain the convincing casualness he thought he had possessed moments before. “I’ve ah, well I’ve recently been reading about certain churches becoming more welcoming to parishioners who are er, attracted to members of their own sex.” 

Gabriel’s face remained flat, unexpressive. Aziraphale wasn’t sure if that was a positive sign or a negative one, but the other man wasn’t flying into a blind rage, so for one moment he allowed himself to grasp onto the tiniest sliver of hope. 

He cleared his throat before continuing. “It’s an interesting notion from a sort of philosophical standpoint, because it does seem a little counterintuitive for love to be considered a punishable offense in the eyes of the lord. Do you ever see our diocese changing its stance on...that?”

Gabriel was silent for a moment, and the sliver of hope in Aziraphale’s chest began to expand.

Then the priest snorted, an ugly, brutish sound that was more befitting an animal than an ordained man of the cloth. “Do I ever see us encouraging sin?” he asked. “No, Aziraphale, I don’t. That’s not exactly our MO. And what you’re describing isn’t love, those people are deluding themselves if they think that’s what it is.”

Azriaphale shifted in his seat. “Right,” he said slowly, as the hope drained from his chest. Not just the sliver of hope he had felt moments before, but every bit of hope he’d ever experienced. Every childhood Christmas, every answered prayer, every smile from a stranger — all of it leeched out of him, forming a pathetic swirling puddle on the floor. 

Gabriel glanced at his watch again and rose from his chair. “As much as I would love to sit here and spin out pointless hypotheticals with you, it’s lunchtime. And you shouldn’t be wasting your time worrying about unrepentant sinners. If they want to be doomed for all eternity, that’s their business.”

He smiled and clapped Aziraphale’s shoulder just a little too hard, then was gone.

Aziraphale sat stock still in the middle of the office, rubbing the tips of his fingers against the pads of his thumbs. Outside in the hallway there was a flurry of activity as students and teachers made their way to the dining hall. Their footfalls and laughter drifted through the open door, echoing slightly as they bounced off the walls of the cavernous office.

 _Crowley was right_ , Aziraphale thought bitterly. _Gabriel really does have too many teeth._

He knew that should have settled it. His mentor, his spiritual advisor who had been chosen to lead him into the priesthood, had spoken, and Aziraphale had gotten his answer in no uncertain terms. In the countless scenarios he had imagined while preparing for this conversation he had of course considered some variation on this response as a possibility, so he really shouldn’t have been surprised.

Except it wasn’t surprise he was feeling now. It was anger.

Those people. _Those people._ The casual, cruel condemnation was staggering, so contrary to everything Gabriel was supposed to stand for, to everything Aziraphale believed in and everything that had made him want to join the church in the first place. No empathy, no attempt at understanding, no show of brotherly love. Just judgement and disgust and and swift dismissal. 

_Those people_ , meaning Crowley.

Meaning Aziraphale. 

Something deep inside him snapped, and the monthslong (or lifetime-long, if he were truly honest with himself) confusion dissipated in an instant. The clarity he had so desperately sought had been granted to him at last, and he knew exactly where he needed to go and what he needed to do.

**********

Blessedly (or not, he still wasn’t sure where blessings came into all of this) he timed his arrival just right — the last of the pub’s patrons seemed to have already stumbled home, but the lights were still on and the faint sounds of Freddie Mercury were creeping out from under the door, meaning Crowley was in the process of cleaning up.

He carefully pushed open the door and slipped inside, breathing in the familiar smell of lager and old wood. The pub appeared to be empty, with the only signs of life being an abandoned mop bucket and the technicolor jukebox in the corner that was currently blaring “Somebody to Love.”

_I have spent all my years in believing you,  
but I just can't get no relief, Lord..._

“Crowley?” he called, raising his voice over Freddie’s. “Crowley, are you here?”

“Azira-“ There was a muffled thump from behind the bar, followed by a string of unintelligible cursing. Crowley stood up behind the taps, rubbing the spot on his forehead he had evidently just hit. “Er, hey,” 

Aziraphale smiled. There was a soft fluttering sensation in the pit of his stomach, the one he had so recently come to associate with Crowley. “Hello, I hope I’m not disturbing you?”

“Nah, just doing inventory. Long time no see.” He moved to the side of the taps and slouched against the bar as casual as ever, though Aziraphale noted a hint of trepidation in his voice.

“Right, yes. I was er, just in the neighborhood, and I thought I might pop in to say hello.”

They both knew this was a piteous lie, but Crowley chose not to address it. He simply nodded and shifted against the bar. “Care for a drink? We just got in a Shiraz you might like.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “No, thank you. I’m fine.”

Crowley nodded again, and the pair lapsed into uncomfortable silence. Even the music grew quieter, as the jukebox slipped into “You Take My Breath Away.”

_You've captured my love,_  
_stolen my heart,_  
_changed my life._  
_Every time you make a move,_  
_you destroy my mind._

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Crowley shifted again and moved to push up his sunglasses, which had begun to slip down the sharp slope of his nose. 

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“Why do you wear those sunglasses?” Aziraphale blurted. It was the first thing he could think to say that could break the silence while still keeping the conversation in a safe, friendly territory. “I’ve never asked.”

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Crowley drummed his fingers against the wood of the bar. “They’re prescription. When I fell, the concussion messed up my eyes pretty bad. Most kinds of light hurt like a...” he waved his hand absently, as if he could pluck the right word from the air. “Like something that hurts a lot. Get pretty bad migraines too.” 

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Aziraphale’s heart swelled. “Oh, Crowley. I had no idea. That sounds dreadful.”

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“Nah, none of that. I don’t need your pity.” He coughed and gave a quasi-nonchalant shrug. “Plus, you know. They look cool, so it’s not so bad.” 

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Aziraphale smiled. “Right, of course.”

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They were quiet for several more seconds, though the air was becoming thick with the weight of all the words unsaid. 

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Crowley continued drumming his fingers against the bar for a moment, then puffed out his cheeks and exhaled slowly. “Why are you here, Aziraphale?” he asked finally. His tone was not unkind, though it did seem strained. 

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Aziraphale realized how cruel it was to first call out of the blue for no particular reason, then to stop by Crowley’s place of work unannounced, once again seemingly without agenda. He licks his lips nervously and gestured to the bar. “Could you ah, come over to this side, please? I’m feeling a bit too much like a patron. Like I should be worried about you cutting me off,” he added, aiming for levity and missing by a mile.

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Crowley chewed the inside of his cheek, seemingly wary to relinquish his physical barrier, but he eventually acquiesced. In one fluid movement he levered himself up and over the bar, though he could have easily just gone around. He righted himself, then crossed his arms across his chest, once again trying to shield himself. His unsubtle attempts at lessening his vulnerability made Aziraphale’s heart ache. 

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Aziraphale shifted and looked down at his hands. ”I ah, I wanted to apologize. For what I said. That night. It was entirely uncalled for, and I’m very sorry if I hurt your feelings.”

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Crowley shrugged. “‘S fine. Stupid of me really, with you being a priest and all. Well, priest in training. Semi-priest. Whatever. Shoulda known it would offend your delicate Catholic sensibilities.”

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Aziraphale shook his head and took a step forward. “That’s not it at all though. I wasn’t offended, Crowley. I was...well if you must know, I was scared.”

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Crowley shifted his arms, reaching up with one hand to scratch his ear. His expression was flat, and impossible to read, which made Aziraphale’s stomach twist itself into a tight knot. 

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“I’m not a scary guy, Aziraphale,” he said eventually. “Devastatingly cool and tough as nails, but not scary.”

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Aziraphale looked back down at his hands, which were now twisting uselessly in front of him. “No, you’re not,” he said softly. “I’m sorry, I’m not doing this right. This isn’t how I pictured this going.”

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“Aha, so I’m not the only one with an imagination,” Crowley said. His voice once again had its familiar teasing lilt. “Anything else involving me that you’ve been imagining?”

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Aziraphale tried to laugh but it came out a pitiful, broken sound. He could feel his eyes beginning to fill with tears, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to stop them from falling . “Please.” His voice was raw, ragged with desire and frustration and sorrow and need. “Please, Crowley. I want…”

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He watched Crowley tamp down his natural inclination to continue teasing, and oh if he wasn’t already half in love with him already that would have done the trick. He removed his sunglasses, and the earnestness in his amber eyes was breathtaking. 

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“What _do_ you want, Aziraphale?”

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Now that was a loaded question. There were so many things that he wanted, it was hard to know where to start. He wanted clarity, some sort of explanation as to how something that felt so pure and natural could be so wrong. He wanted to not have to worry about his church, his beloved church, turning its back on him. He wanted someone to tell him objectively whether or not he was making the right choice. He wanted to tell Gabriel to go pound sand. But one want stood tall above the rest, pushed and shoved and elbowed its way to the front, so that everything else paled in comparison. 

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“You. I want you, probably more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life.”

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Crowley’s lips parted, releasing a tiny “oh” into the ether. His gaze softened, and the look of pure tenderness on his face made Aziraphale want to melt into a puddle. 

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It took several long seconds for him to be able to find his voice. “Ngk.” He cleared his throat and ran a hand through his hair. “Right, okay. Yeah. Well um, if that’s the case, there’s something you should probably know.”

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Aziraphale’s stomach dropped. Had he gotten it wrong? After all that, did Crowley not want him? A lump began to form in his throat, and he felt the tears from earlier begin to spill over.

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Crowley’s eyes widened. “Oh, oh! No, oh please don’t cry.” He rushed forward, cupping Aziraphale’s face in his hands. “I was just going to say you should know that you’ve had me since the moment you told me you gave away your bloody coat. I’ve been yours all along, I just wanted to put all my cards on the table.”

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Aziraphale felt as if he might get whiplash from this conversation. “You—oh. What a terrible way to preface that!” He likely would have been more upset by this, but Crowley’s thumbs were stroking away his errant tears in an achingly tender way.

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“I know, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” Crowley said. “That sounded so romantic and suave in my head, I wasn’t thinking. I’m very bad at this. You should probably know that right now, I’m just really, really rubbish at it. Truly—“

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“Did you mean it?”

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Crowley stopped short. “What?”

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“That you've...ever since our second meeting?” 

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“Oh, yeah. I did mean that. Is that…” Crowley trailed off, searching Aziraphale’s face for some sign of dismissal. “Is that okay?”

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Aziraphale gave a small nod, and the sensation of Crowley’s palms rubbing against his cheeks sent a small thrill through him. “More than okay.” He smiled softly. “Your delivery needs work, but the sentiment really is rather romantic.”

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Crowley’s tiny, shy smile lit up the darkened pub as his gaze drifted down to Aziraphale’s lips. He started to lean forward then hesitated, and for a moment Aziraphale wondered if he was reconsidering. But no, he realized a moment later, he was waiting for Aziraphale to come to him. It had to be his choice to break down this final barrier.

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Aziraphale raised a hand between them, surprised to see that it wasn’t shaking. His fingers skated across Crowley’s sharp cheekbone and down along the slope of his jaw, coming to rest just below his lips. He looked up into Crowley’s eyes, which were so wide and open and trusting, and leaned forward. Before he could second-guess himself he pressed his lips to Crowley’s, immediately swallowing the other man’s soft moan, and felt the rest of the world melt away.

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Crowley shifted slightly, bringing his hands down to rest on Aziraphale’s waist. Aziraphale gasped and wound his arms around Crowley’s neck, pulling him ever closer. The only sound he could hear was the beat of his own oft-neglected heart, a mighty roar that seemed to give voice to the barrier that had just broken down. He thought of David and Goliath, of the walls of Jericho, and he opened his mouth to allow Crowley in even more. In the back of his mind he knew there would be consequences, that he was quite literally kissing his future in the church goodbye. But as Crowley moved his hands up and began stroking his ribs, Aziraphale found that he couldn’t quite bring himself to care. 

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He didn’t know what the future would hold for him. He didn’t know what he would do for work, or where he would live, or even if he could continue going to church as a parishioner. In many ways he was now even more lost and confused than he had been when he walked in the door.

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But now, there was one inalienable truth of which he was certain: he was not alone. He and Crowley were a team, and no matter what came their way, the would be facing it down together.

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen, I'm not saying that "spiting your priest" is necessarily a good reason to start a relationship with someone, but if your priest happens to be Gabriel/someone like Gabriel, it's also not a bad reason. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Chapter title from "Our Lips Are Sealed" by The Go-Gos


	5. no wedding day smiles, no walk down the aisle

**2019**

“And what does the Hanged Man represent?”

Adam closed his eyes, furrowing his brow in concentration. “Being stuck, or a lack of ability to help oneself through independent action,” he recited.

“Excellent,” Madam Tracy beamed. “And reversed?”

“Selfishness, or useless sacrifice,” he said, with slightly more confidence.

“Oh, you’re a natural! Before you know it you’re going to be better at this than I am,” she said, shuffling her deck. Truth be told, it would not have been particularly difficult for him to surpass her in tarot-talent. A Madame Sosostris she was not — she had never been an exceptionally good psychic, though she did always put on a good show of it for her clients. That said, she was correct in saying that Adam was a natural; at Uni it would become his go-to drunken party trick and would help him catch the eye of Warlock Dowling, his future husband. (Though neither he nor Madam Tracy would ever see that one coming.)

These little tarot lessons had become a regular occurrence at the shop, when Adam was not accompanied by his friends. As the summer wore on, Aziraphale had procured several additional stools, as well as a basket bed and fresh stash of treats for Dog (who was slowly warming up to him). Customers often did a double-take when they entered, clearly not expecting to see children or animals or psychic reading sessions taking place in a tiny Soho flower shop, but no one seemed to mind terribly. Least of all Aziraphale, who had all but given up on the pretense of running a proper business. 

As Madam Tracy laid out a Celtic cross on the countertop, the florist set about making a fresh pot of tea in the back room, humming all the while. It was something he found himself doing a lot these days. Since Adam and his friends had started hanging around, the shop seemed to be perpetually filled with laughter and warmth, making Aziraphale feel at home in a way he hadn’t in a very long time. 

But as he reemerged from the back room bearing tea and biscuits, the August idyll was broken by an unholy screech. The trio turned to the window just in time to see Crowley pull up outside the shop in his Bentley. Two of the tires were up on the curb, and the sandwich board advertising 15% off all rose purchases had been knocked flat by the bumper. 

Apparently satisfied with his parking job, Crowley hopped out and began strolling towards the tattoo parlor.

“Oh for heaven’s sake!” Aziraphale cried. He slammed the kettle and biscuit tin down on the counter, sloshing a few drops of Darjeeling on the cards, and stormed out of the shop.

The door swung shut behind him, muffling the ensuing argument from Madam Tracy’s and Adam’s ears. That didn’t stop them from watching the silent drama that began to play out in the street, with Aziraphale gesticulating wildly and Crowley looking bored and not at all like he was going to move his car any time soon. 

“Oh, just kiss and make up already,” Madam Tracy muttered. She set her cards down on her lap and set about pouring the tea.

Adam looked at her quizzically. “You want them to be boyfriends again?”

Madam Tracy gestured towards the window, where the two men were still locked in a heated discussion. Or, more accurately: where Aziraphale was locked in a heated discussion. Crowley was leaning up against the Bentley with a smirk, clearly parrying each of his protestations with a clever zinger. “Not just me, they both want it too. They’re just too bloody proud to admit it.”

“Mr. Fell said that what happened between them was complicated.”

Madam Tracy smiled and shook her head. “Not nearly as complicated as they make it out to be.” She reached out and squeezed his hand. “Most of the time when grown-ups say something is complicated, it really just means that talking about it makes them too sad.” 

This made sense to Adam, for the most part. He thought back to all the times his parents had said those very words to him, how often they were accompanied by a sad look, much like Aziraphale’s. He looked back to the window and watched as Crowley stuck his tongue out at Aziraphale, who threw his hands in the air and stormed back to the shop.

He shot Madam Tracy a dark look as he came back around the counter. “Not a word,” he muttered.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” she said mildly, handing him his tea. 

Adam watched as Aziraphale leaned against the counter, pinching the bridge of his nose and looking like he was trying very hard not to cry. He hated seeing the florist so upset, especially since he now knew there was a potential remedy for the man’s misery. He was a kind, generous soul who went out of his way to make other people happy, and the more Adam thought about it, the more he realized that it only made sense for someone to return the favor.

Later that night, he met up with the Them and relayed Madam Tracy’s commentary.

“They’re still in love,” he said. “It’s obvious. They just need a little push to make them realize how stupid they’re being.”

“I take it you actually mean we should be the ones to push them together?” Wendsleydale asked nervously.

“Of course. I’ve got a plan.”

“Sounds like a great plan,” said Brian, who had only been half-listening. He’d been distracted by a particularly interesting-looking dragonfly that was hovering nearby.

Adam frowned. “I haven’t said my plan yet.”

“Yeah, but it sounds like it’s gonna be a good one,” Brian said, trying to save face. “All your plans are good.”

**********

Several days later, a young woman with dark hair and impossibly thick glasses showed up at the shop, looking lost.

Aziraphale greeted her warmly. “How can I help you?”

The woman adjusted her glasses and gave him a kind, if twitchy, smile. “Hi there. Do you by any chance do weddings?”

Aziraphale beamed. “Of course, I adore them. When’s the big day?”

“Well that’s the thing,” she said nervously, shifting from foot to foot. “It’s on Halloween. It’s not too late to book you, is it? I know two months and some change isn’t a lot of time to prepare.” 

“No, that’s perfectly fine.” Normally Aziraphale booked weddings close to a year in advance, and his official policy was no less than six months notice. But there was something unique about this girl, he told himself. Perhaps it was the way she dressed, slightly stuffy and old-fashioned, like Aziraphale himself. Or perhaps it was just because it was Wednesday, or that he was in a good mood, or that he would have preferred to set himself on fire rather than have someone leave his shop disappointed. 

He knew Madam Tracy would tease him mercilessly for once again letting his soft touch tendencies interfere with his business practices; he also knew she would be thrilled to be recruited into helping out with the order. Together they could make it work. 

The woman clutched a hand to her chest. “Oh my God you’re a lifesaver, I’m so bad at this wedding planning stuff. To be honest I never really thought I’d ever be getting married, always thought I was more the witchy spinster in the woods type,” she rambled. “Although my aunt Agnes swore up and down that she always knew I was fated to find love. Her words, not mine. I’m Anathema, by the way.”

“Pleasure to meet you, I’m Aziraphale.”

“Hey, another member of the weirdly-antiquated name club!” Anathema grinned. “I take it that primary school wasn’t much fun for you either?”

Aziraphale smiled wryly. “Not in the slightest.” He ducked behind the counter to retrieve his wedding arrangement portfolio. “What’s your color palette?”

“I dunno. I mean, I’ll be wearing white. Probably. Still need to get around to getting a dress.”

Aziraphale couldn’t help the look of pure horror that crossed his face. “Two months to the wedding and you don’t have a color palette or a dress?”

Anathema shrugged. “I told you, I’m not great at this. I’m usually super organized about everything, but for some reason my brain’s decided that this is a good time to start procrastinating. I probably would have put this part off even longer, but one of my students recommended you to me. Not sure why an eleven year old boy knows so much about flowers, but he swore up and down that you were the best.”

“This student wouldn’t happen to be Adam Young, would it?” Aziraphale asked, bemused. 

“It is!” Anathema smiled. “He’s a good kid, he and his friends visit me occasionally during the summer months. It’s funny, they also suggested that my fiance and I get matching tattoos before the wedding.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips. “Of course they did.”

Anathema shrugged. “I think they were just kidding, but I actually kind of love the idea. Now the trick is just convincing the fiance. He’s deathly afraid of needles.”

“Right.” Aziraphale drummed his fingers against the countertop. “Well, this might be a bit forward, but I’ve done many, many weddings over the course of my career, and I believe I’ve absorbed quite a lot of information on them by osmosis. I could offer my assistance in planning and preparations, if you’d like.”

Anathema frowned and adjusted her glasses again. “Oh, I don’t know if I could afford to hire you as a planner too. You know, teacher’s salary.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “No charge. A friend of Adam’s is a friend of mine.” 

If his ledger books could talk, they’d have been screaming bloody murder. One of these days he was going to have to actually start running the shop like a proper business, but today was not that day. And the next day didn’t look too promising either.

“Really?” Anathema looked like she’d just won the lottery or seen a particularly cute dog. “Oh my gosh, you’re a lifesaver. An actual angel.”

Aziraphale stiffened slightly, but his smile stayed in place. “It’s nothing, really.”

**********

Anathema hadn’t been kidding when she said she hadn’t planned anything. Aside from a half-completed draft of a guest list, everything was up in the air. No venue, no music, no menu, no invitations. Aziraphale had his work cut out for him.

And so, A.Z. Fell & Co. became Anathema Device’s wedding planning headquarters seemingly overnight. The floriography tomes on the front counter were replaced with a towering stack of bridal magazines and vendor information packets, the wrapping station was buried under sheets and sheets of fabric samples for tablecloths and runners, and there were now a number of color swatch cards hidden inside the till. Though it was still summer, his regular floral orders were now filled with nothing but autumnal offerings — dahlias, purple acacia, eucalyptus, thistle, amaranthus — and even a few types of succulents, which his supplier told him were very “Insta-worthy” (whatever that meant). 

As expected, Madam Tracy was delighted to offer her assistance, and predictably she and Anathema became fast friends. Adam and the Them were also drafted into helping, answering phones and running to pick up samples from vendors. They seemed delighted to be entrusted with such grown-up tasks, though it did raise a few slight ethical quandaries.

“At what point does this start breaking child labor laws?” Anathema asked one day, looking over Wensleydale’s shoulder as he balanced the shop’s account books.

Aziraphale grimaced. “Goodness, I hadn’t thought of that.” In his defense, Wensleydale had volunteered for that particular task, calling Aziraphale’s accounting practices “horrendous” (which, to be fair, they were). “Children, you should probably take a break now, go outside and play.”

“But we don’t want to,” Pepper protested. In lieu of gifts, Newt and Anathema were requesting their guests make donations to charity; Pepper had been tasked with researching worthy causes and organizations. It was a job she took very seriously — she and Brian were in the corner with a tablet and a stack of nonprofit annual reports. “And we’d prefer you didn’t call us children,” she continued. “It’s infantilizing. I think ‘colleagues’ would be more appropriate in this context.”

Aziraphale looked back to Anathema and gave her a weak smile. “Perhaps you can give them extra credit once school starts back up? Quite a lot of it?”

Anathema thought about it for a moment, then shrugged. “Sounds good to me, colleagues.”

**********

The last day of August was an unreasonably long one, and by the time closing rolled around Aziraphale was bone-tired. In addition to working on his usual floral orders and custom arrangements he had also spent several hours on the phone with the caterers, who for whatever reason were looking to fight him every step of the way. Though it was just as well, since the children hadn’t made an appearance that day. He’d grown so used to their presence in such a short period of time, that the shop seemed like such a hopelessly lonely place without them. Staying busy helped to keep his mind from dwelling on that fact for too long.

He went outside to retrieve the sandwich board, which was only slightly worse for the wear after its brush with the Bentley.

As he moved to fold the board, he glanced up and saw Crowley walking down the sidewalk with a paper bag from the chemist’s in one hand. 

He wasn’t wearing his jacket (an unusual occurrence, but it had been quite warm that day), leaving most of his tattoos visible. His left arm was dotted with small stick and poke doodles he had done himself during his apprenticeship — constellations, lightning bolts, arrows, musical notes, pentagrams, anchors, dice, plus a tiny daisy nestled in the crook of his elbow. His right arm was done up with a lush greyscale garden sleeve, all intricate thorned vines twisted up with pine boughs and fern leaves and apple blossoms. That was one of the first tattoos he’d gotten, before he’d even begun to consider becoming an artist himself. It had taken nearly a dozen hours to complete, stretched across three sessions. Aziraphale had gone with him to all three, to keep him company and help stave off boredom (Crowley had a tendency to fidget when bored, something that’s rather frowned upon when someone is doing intricate linework on your body). It was a fond memory, one that filled Aziraphale with a feeling of bittersweet warmth every time he was reminded of it.

Crowley spotted him and held up his hands in a ‘don’t shoot’ gesture. “Don’t worry, the Bentley is far away from your precious curb,” he said.

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow, skeptical. “You were able to find another space?”

Crowley stopped in front of him and stuck his free hand in his pocket. “Yeah, figured I’d plunk it in front of that poncy new restaurant that just opened down the road. Block it a bit, maybe cut down on their foot traffic.”

Aziraphale wrinkled his nose. “Oh yes, Famine. Dreadful place, I don’t think even I could object to your making a nuisance there.”

“And that’s saying something.”

Aziraphale couldn’t really argue with that, so he simply pursed his lips and made a noncommittal hum.

Maybe it was the fact it had been a long day of wedding planning, maybe it was the sight of the sleeve, maybe it was the way the setting sun caught Crowley’s russet hair and made it glow, but something made him wish to continue the conversation. “Was Adam with you today? He didn’t stop by, which usually means he’s at yours.”

“Yep, all four of them were there today.” Crowley smirked. “Sort of feels like we’re sharing custody at this point.”

Aziraphale had to smile at that. “Yes, I suppose it does. I do wonder if they tell their parents where they’ve been all day.”

“Mmm, hope not. Not sure how well it would go over, finding out they’ve been spending time in my _den of iniquity_.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Well, for all of your bluster, you are quite good with them. Adam especially. He really seems to look up to you.”

He had meant to tease, knowing how much Crowley would hate the idea of being a role model. But there was no real bite to his words, so it came out sounding like a genuine compliment.

Crowley scrubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “Ah, well. You know. He’s a good kid. Asks too many questions, but that’s not such a bad thing.”

“No, I suppose it’s not.” 

Several moments of awkward silence passed as Aziraphale wracked his brain for something to say. Something that was not _“Sometimes I miss you so much it makes my teeth ache.”_

These moments of civility between them were not unheard of, but they were few and far between. Sometimes when no one else was around, and the wind was just right, and Mercury wasn’t in retrograde, they were able to reach a kind of detente. It was pleasant, but in some ways it hurt worse than the fighting did. Aziraphale could hold his own while they were bickering, and it was so much easier to keep Crowley at arm's length. But in these quiet moments he was funny and kind, and Aziraphale was reminded of the fact that Crowley was exactly the same person he had fallen in love with nearly thirty years prior. It was a punch with a velvet glove, a reminder that if he himself hadn’t been such a blind, dithering idiot, they would likely still be together, and Crowley would still love him.

Crowley jerked a thumb over his shoulder towards the general vicinity of his shop. “Anyway, I should be getting back to it. See you around.” 

“Right, yes. See you around.”

Crowley turned and sauntered back to Ninth Circle Ink. Aziraphale chewed his lip for a moment before remembering his initial task, and moved to fold up the sandwich board and drag it back inside. The shop was quiet, somehow more lonely and more desolate than it had been just a few minutes prior. He tried humming but it was no use, the tiny melody was no match for the ear-splitting silence. As he locked up for the night, his thoughts circled back to Crowley, always Crowley. 

The thing was, he’d tried to move on. He’d really, truly tried. He’d dated other men, kissed other men. He’d even dated a woman for a short while, since it was something he’d never tried before. (Fortunately, Katherine had been lovely and very understanding of his situation. She was now married with two daughters, and Aziraphale still received Christmas cards from her every year.) He had assumed it would be easy; since Crowley had been his first everything — kiss, fuck, love — breaking up meant he was free to explore his likes and dislikes, turn-ons and turn-offs. 

But it seemed that his list of dislikes and turn-offs far outweighed everything else. No one else could ever compare; they were either too tall or too short, too kind or too dull. This one wasn’t quick-witted enough, that one was too acerbic. They were all pleasant enough to be around, but none of them ever inspired any great swell of emotion in him. He couldn’t imagine feeling passionate towards them, couldn’t imagine loving them or taking them to bed. There was no spark with them, no exhilaration, no screaming or fighting or kissing in the rain. They were all just so...not Crowley. 

He eventually accepted the fact that there could be no one else for him, and that he was likely to love Crowley from a (short) distance for the rest of his days. There was a certain romanticism to it, he supposed, like something out of a Bronte novel. ‘Tis better to have loved and lost, and so forth.

Still, as he shuffled upstairs to his little flat (what had once been _their_ little flat), he couldn’t help but question his own motivations in helping Anathema plan her wedding. Of course he was a soft touch who delighted in helping others, but offering to plan a complete stranger’s wedding was a bit much, even for him. And some of the suggestions he’d made had come to him so quickly — from having a string quartet play during the ceremony (Anathema had loved the idea), to serving Châteauneuf-du-Pape at dinner (ended up being cost-prohibitive, such a pity), to using the lovely cream tartan table runners he’d found at the thrift store (both Anathema and Newt had vetoed them straight away). Deep down he wondered if he wasn’t, in a way, planning the wedding that he and Crowley could have had. 

The wedding that they should have had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your lovely kudos and comments! I'm so glad to know you all are enjoying this verse as much as I am. 
> 
> Chapter title from Bruce Springsteen's "The River"


	6. if we die before we wake, who we are is no mistake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: more religion-related homophobia

**1990**

When they arrived at Crowley’s flat, Aziraphale had begun kissing Crowley’s neck and tugging at his clothing, eager to continue what they had started at the pub. He was ready for this, ready to throw caution to the wind and break his vow of chastity in a most spectacular fashion.

But Crowley had stilled his restless hands, bringing them up to his lips and kissing the knuckles. “Maybe we should hold off on that for a while, yeah? Might be a bit much right now, everything happening at once.”

“Are you sure?” Aziraphale asked. He had assumed that this was what Crowley wanted, and that he’d already kept him waiting long enough. 

Crowley nodded. “‘It’s been a long day. Plus, I wanna do this right, wine you and dine you and the whole lot.” He looked down, slightly bashful. “We haven’t even had a proper date yet.”

Aziraphale blushed. He liked the sound of that, liked the longevity suggested by that innocuous “yet.” Crowley was thinking of this in the long term and was already planning several steps ahead. He wanted to do this, whatever _this_ was, right. There was something terribly endearing about that, something charmingly old fashioned that made Aziraphale’s knees weak. Who would have known that Crowley, the snarky bartender with chips on both his shoulders, would be such a closet romantic?

Aziraphale smoothed his hands over Crowley’s shirt where he’d wrinkled it. “I think that could be arranged,” he said, in what he hoped was a somewhat coquettish tone. “But could we, um,” he stuttered and bit his lip, unsure of how to word his request. 

“Could we…?” 

Aziraphale took a deep breath. “I’d very much like to hold you tonight,” he said, all in a rush. “No funny business. I just, erm, imagine it would be quite nice to fall asleep in your arms.” His cheeks were well and truly burning now. He looked down to where his hands rested against Crowley’s chest, unsure if he was crossing a boundary. 

Crowley laughed, but when he tilted Aziraphale’s chin back up his expression was unbearably fond. “You actually are too pure for this world, you know that? A proper angel.” He placed a kiss on Aziraphale’s forehead. “I’d like that too. So long as you promise there really won’t be any funny business,” he teased. 

Aziraphale made a face. “Oh I suppose you’d rather I call it f-fff—“ He’d fully intended to say _fucking_ , but the word got caught in his throat. Old habits. 

Crowley laughed again and laced their fingers together. “See, just proving my point. Now c’mon _angel_ , lets go to bed.”

When Aziraphale awoke the next morning, it took him several seconds to remember where he was. He was in an unfamiliar bed wearing a Queen t-shirt and sweatpants (a far-cry from his usual tartan pajama set) with an unfamiliar arm slung across his midsection, which was all rather disorienting. But when he turned his face and saw the tangled mass of crimson locks on the pillow beside him, it all came rushing back. His stomach did a soft fluttery flip as he realized that this was real. He was really in Crowley’s bed, wearing Crowley’s clothes, feeling Crowley’s gentle sleepy breaths against his skin. He lifted one hand and smoothed some of those messy auburn strands, letting his fingers linger on the delicate shell of Crowley’s ear.

Crowley made a sound not unlike a hiss and shuffled closer, burying his face in the crook of Aziraphale’s neck. “M’ning.” His voice was muffled, and his lips caught against the delicate skin of Aziraphale’s throat. 

“Good morning to you, too,” Aziraphale said. He ran his hands through Crowley’s hair again in a vain attempt to try to tame it. It was softer than he would have expected; the strands were silky in a way that could only be achieved with expensive products and meticulous care.

Crowley made a happy sighing sound and melted even more into his embrace. “‘S nice.”

Aziraphale hummed and continued his ministrations. “I could get up and make us some coffee, if you’d like.”

Crowley tightened his hold and shook his head, mumbling something unintelligible.

Aziraphale tutted. “Use your words, dear.”

“No.”

“No, you won’t use your words, or no you don’t want me get up?” Aziraphale teased, relishing the chance to be the cheeky one, for once. 

“Either.” He lifted his chin and blinked up at Aziraphale. “Both. Don’t need coffee yet. Stay.”

Aziraphale smiled. Normally he was an early riser, awake at the crack of dawn and ready to start the day. However, the prospect of having a lie-in with Crowley was rather appealing. “As you like, my darling.”

Crowley let out a loud bark of laughter and rolled over into his back. “Darling?” he asked, somewhat incredulously.

Aziraphale frowned and propped himself up on one elbow. “Is that not alright?” For a moment he worried that he’d overstepped and offended Crowley, who did so like to keep up his cool, tough guy façade. Perhaps "darling" was a step too far. Oh, eight hours into his first relationship and he was already making a mess of things. That didn’t seem to bode well.

Crowley, possibly sensing his fear, grinned and reached out to pull Aziraphale into his arms. “Of course it’s alright,” he said, peppering kisses across his chin and cheeks. He ran a hand through tufted blond curls, which were only slightly less unruly than Crowley’s own hair, and snickered. “I just should have known you would be so...well, _gay_ about being gay.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes and tried to hide his relief. “Oh, you’re one to talk. Last night you called me angel.” He half-heartedly swatted at Crowley’s chest before resting his head there, just above the other man’s heart. He couldn’t believe he was allowed to do this now. To reach out, to touch, to close the messy, inconvenient distance between their two persons. To hold out his hand and know that strong, loving fingers would find their way between his own, sealing their palms together like a promise. And it wasn’t wrong. It wasn’t frowned upon. There was no one who would—

Aziraphale sat bolt upright, knocking the top of his head against Crowley’s chin. “What time is it?”

“Ow, wha-,” Crowley rubbed at his jaw and glanced over to the Mickey Mouse alarm clock on the nightstand. “It’s eight-thirty.”

Aziraphale’s heart plummeted to the pit of his stomach. He’d been so caught up in the dizzy, delirious feeling of loving and being loved by Crowley, he’d forgotten the serious, real-world consequences of his actions. “I have my morning meeting with Gabriel in half an hour, and then I’m supposed to report to the hospital.”

Crowley stilled. “You’re going to...you’re going to go?”

Aziraphale chewed his lip. “I don’t see how I can’t. I didn’t exactly leave a note before I went to the pub last night, if they find that I’ve gone they’ll probably put in a missing persons report.”

“Yeah, but like,” Crowley shimmied himself up into a sitting position. “Seriously, after all that? You’re just gonna, just gonna leave?” He was clearly trying to stay on this side of calm, but there was a distinct note of panic in his voice. 

“Oh, oh my dear,” Aziraphale realized his mistake. He reached out and took his hand. “No, I’m not returning to my post. I couldn’t do that, now that I’ve, well…” His eyes began to well up with tears. He wasn’t sure how that sentence was supposed to end. Now that he’d kissed Crowley? Now that he’d accepted this as part of his identity? Now that he dared disagree with scripture?

Crowley’s jaw tensed for a moment as he appeared to wrestle with some sort of internal dilemma of his own. He opened his mouth once, twice as if to say something, then shook his head. Finally, he sighed and leaned forward, cupping Aziraphale’s face with his free hand. “Please don’t do this just for me.” He looked pained, as if each word had to be wrenched from his very core. “Look, I...if you want to go back and pretend like this never happened, that’s fine. I would hate for you to burn that bridge just because you didn’t want to, I dunno, hurt my feelings or something.”

Aziraphale shook his head, dislodging Crowley’s hand. “That’s not it. I don’t have a single regret, please believe me on that. But I just wish...I wish I didn’t have to choose.” The first few tears began to slide down his cheeks, and he hastily tried to wipe them away. “It’s just that the church is all I’ve ever known, and to know it would turn it’s back on me for this...it’s just not fair,” he said, hating how petulant he sounded. His shoulders shook as he began to cry in earnest.

“Oh, I know. I know, angel.” Crowley’s voice broke as he reached forward and pulled him into a tight embrace.

Aziraphale let out a tiny gasp at the endearment and clutched at Crowley, fisting his hands in the soft material of his t-shirt. 

Crowley stroked his back as he cried. “You’re right, it’s not fair,” he said softly. “But you’re not alone in this, okay? I’m with you, I’m on your side. Our side, really. Whatever happens, we’ll deal with it together.”

Aziraphale took a small, sniffly breath and nodded against Crowley’s chest. Our side, he thought. Our side, our side, our side. He let the words roll around his skull for several seconds, allowing them to sync up with his heartbeat like a mantra. 

Our side.

**********

An hour later, they pulled up outside Allen Hall.

“Are you still sure you wanna do this?” Crowley asked, finding an empty space and yanking the ancient gearshift into park.

“No.” Aziraphale looked up at the building, which suddenly seemed so much more intimidating that it ever had before. “But I have to. I can’t just disappear, I owe them an explanation at the very least.”

“You really don’t, but okay.”

Aziraphale turned to face Crowley, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth. “And you’re sure it’s alright that I stay with you for the time being? Just until I get back up on my feet?” He knew it was a tall order, especially considering how new this was, but he really didn’t have much of a choice. 

“For the hundredth time, it’s more than alright.” Crowley took Aziraphale’s hand and pressed a soft kiss to his knuckles. “You can stay for as long as you like.”

Aziraphale blushed, for a moment forgetting where they were. He squeezed Crowley’s fingers experimentally, still not entirely sure if this wasn’t all just some delicious dream. 

“Thank you, _darling_.” He smiled, adding extra emphasis to the endearment now that he knew it was okay.

Crowley affectionately rolled his eyes and let out a dramatic groan. “I’m gonna regret saying you can call me that, aren’t I?”

“Perhaps.” Aziraphale’s smile fell away as he looked back towards the building. “Right. Here goes...everything, I suppose.” He steeled himself and pushed the door of the Volkswagen open. 

The walk to Gabriel’s office took somewhere between a few minutes and an eternity. It was long enough for him to tie himself up in knots over what he was about to do, but not nearly long enough for him to figure out what he was supposed to say. He doubted that a simple “I’m here, I’m queer, get used to it,” would go over very well.

The office door was open, and Gabriel caught sight of Aziraphale before the latter had time to second-guess himself.

“Aziraphale, it’s not like you to be late to one of our meetings,” Gabriel said, leaning back in his chair.

Aziraphale nodded, unable to make eye contact. He closed the door behind himself and shuffled forward, feeling for all the world like a child called to the headmaster’s office. “I do apologize for that. But I’m afraid I’ve come to tell you that I’m leaving, I will no longer be continuing my studies here.”

There was a flicker behind Gabriel’s too-white smile, something vaguely threatening. “Now why would you want to do something like that?”

Aziraphale shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Er, well. Do you remember our conversation yesterday?”

Gabriel looked at him blankly. 

“The hypothetical one about, er, homosexuality?”

“What about it?”

“Well, my question wasn’t quite as hypothetical as I made it out to be.”

“What do you mean?”

Aziraphale sighed and fiddled with the sleeve of his jumper. “Well, I sort of have a personal stake in the matter, it would seem.”

Another blank stare. Goodness, the man would have made an excellent ventriloquist’s dummy in another life.

“I’ve fallen in love with a man.” 

And there it was. Last night he had felt as if he was standing on the edge of a precipice and now he had jumped, surrendering himself to the wide blue expanse of the sky and praying desperately for a soft landing.

Gabriel was very still for a very, very long time. Aziraphale could almost see his mind trying to process this new information, as if it were a complicated trigonometry problem that needed solving. At last he blinked and opened his mouth, and Aziraphale steeled himself for the inevitable reprimand. 

Which never came.

Instead, Gabriel laughed, a harsh braying sound which set Aziraphale’s teeth on edge.

“That’s a good one!” he cried, pounding the desk with the flat of his hand. “Oh, you really had me going there for a minute. _I’ve fallen in love with a maahn_ ,” he repeated, apparently trying to imitate Aziraphale’s accent. “Oh you gotta do that in front of Sandalphon, he’ll get a kick out of that.”

Aziraphale’s stomach sank. He would have preferred a reprimand, a slap, anything other than Gabriel’s cruel laughter.

“Gabriel, I’m serious.”

“So am I. Honestly, tonight at dinner, you gotta-“

“Gabriel!” Aziraphale snapped. He never raised his voice (much less to ordained priests), but this was far too much even for him. 

Gabriel’s laughter died in his throat as he took in Aziraphale’s red face, the way his trembling hands were clenched into fists at his sides. There was a quick flash of recognition, a dawning realization, and his expression became stern. 

“Aziraphale,” he said, tone warning. “If you’re not joking, there will be serious consequences.”

Aziraphale swallowed and nodded. “I understand.”

“That sort of thing is completely unacceptable for a member of the church, let alone a candidate for priesthood.”

“I understand.”

“I don’t think you do,” Gabriel spoke slowly, as if he were trying to talk someone down off a ledge. “If you leave, there’s no coming back.”

“Yes, that’s rather the point,” Aziraphale replied.

Gabriel grimaced and tugged at his roman collar. “And if you follow through with... _this_ ,” he said, giving him a look of pure disgust, “you’re willfully choosing damnation.” 

Aziraphale swallowed and glanced out the window, which overlooked the car park. He could see the Volkswagen from where he was standing. Crowley was sitting in the driver’s seat, playing air guitar along with whatever was on the radio. His sunglasses were slipping down the bridge of his nose and his hair was still mussed from sleep, and oh, if he wasn’t the loveliest thing Aziraphale had ever laid eyes on.

Something warm and soft bloomed in the center of his chest, something pure and unimpeachable. If he’d still been harboring any doubts, they flew out the lead-lined window right then and there. 

Aziraphale smiled softly, not taking his eyes off Crowley. “No, Gabriel. I’m not choosing damnation. I’m choosing love.”

*********

Though it wasn’t exactly surprising, there was something rather sad about the fact that all of his meager possessions fit into one small cardboard box.

As soon as he stepped back out of the main entrance Crowley clambered out of the car and popped the boot open. “How did it go?” he asked, once Aziraphale was within earshot.

Aziraphale didn’t trust himself to speak just yet, so he simply gave a quick shake of his head and hefted the box into the car. 

He glanced up and saw that Gabriel had come out to stand on the front steps, accompanied by Father Sandalphon. Judging by the look of pure disgust on Sandalphon’s face, he had already been briefed on the nature of Aziraphale’s departure.

So much for “let he among us without sin be the first to condemn.”

Crowley closed the boot and moved to the passenger side door, holding it open for Aziraphale. It was a completely unnecessary act of chivalry, done purely for the benefit of their audience, and Aziraphale loved him for it. He briefly considered pulling Crowley down into a dramatic, tongue-heavy kiss, just for the sake of a spectacular exit, but no, that wouldn’t be right. He wouldn’t weaponize his love, wouldn’t taint the sweetness of Crowley’s kisses with their harsh, hateful scrutiny.

As Aziraphale slid into the seat and heard the door shut, he didn’t take his eyes off of Gabriel and Sandalphon, worried that they might try to stop him or else say something nasty to Crowley. But they just stood stock still, projecting their judgement upon him with laser-like precision. There was something poetic about that, Aziraphale thought. When he’d first arrived at Allen Hall two years prior, it had seemed like the most hallowed and holy place he could imagine. He still thought that to some degree, and felt that the hours he had spent praying in its chapel had brought him closer to God than ever before. But now these two men, these bigoted gatekeepers who claimed to speak for God, were physically barring him from returning. 

It hurt, like saying goodbye to an old friend for the last time. But, he reminded himself, it would have hurt even worse to stay, to bottle everything up and force it down to the depths of his being.

The driver’s side door slammed shut, breaking Aziraphale from his reverie. 

“Ready?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale nodded, not taking his eyes off of Gabriel. “Ready.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Aziraphale and Crowley did lowkey move in with each other approximately nine hours after their first kiss. Gotta love some good old fashioned U-haul gays.
> 
> Chapter title from Kesha's "Hymn".


	7. darling, let me trace the lines on your tattooed heart

**2019**

“No, Aunt Agnes can’t sit with any of the Pulsifers,” Anathema said, leaning over the seating chart. “There’s some bad blood there, better to keep her over with you guys. Although come to think of it, she and Shadwell might not get along too well either.”

“He doesn’t get along with anyone,” Adam said, hopping off his stool and leaning his elbows on the counter. “Except Madam Tracy, but that’s ‘cause he’s all in love with her and stuff.”

It was the last Saturday in September, just over a month before the wedding. School had started up for both Anathema and the Them, which meant that wedding planning was now relegated to weekends. It also meant that their numbers were often depleted due to other commitments; today the seating charts were being overseen by just Aziraphale, Anathema, and Adam. Newt was there too, but he was rarely much help in these matters. Generally, it was better for all parties involved if he just sat quietly and gazed at Anathema adoringly. Otherwise he just held up the process by asking questions like _what’s chiffon?_ and _aren’t taupe and beige the same thing?_

Aziraphale looked back over the chart and hummed thoughtfully. He made a few notes and scratched out Agnes’s original placement with an unnecessary flourish. “I think moving Agnes will work. We’ll have to move your cousin Mary over to the Pulsifer table though.”

“That’s fine,” Anathema replied, giving an absent wave of her hand. “She can and will talk to anyone about anything.”

“Often at great length,” Newt added, grimacing.

Anathema nodded sympathetically and surveyed their work. “I think that takes care of just about everyone though, right? We can leave these seats open for anyone who shows up without RSVP-ing,” she said, tapping a black-lacquered nail next to a few unclaimed spots at Aziraphale’s table.

Aziraphale sniffed, but said nothing. He’d already expressed his opinions on the subject of guests who don’t RSVP (namely that they shouldn’t expect to be fed after so flagrantly defying the social contract), but he had been outvoted on the matter.

“Speaking of last minute,” Anathema pulled an antique pocket watch from somewhere in her voluminous skirt and checked the time, “Newt, we should be getting going. I doubt Mr. Crowley would take too kindly to us being late.”

Aziraphale’s head snapped up. “Late for what?”

Anathema grinned and wrapped her arms around Newt’s middle. “I finally talked him into the matching tattoos thing, we’re getting wedding bands,” she said, holding up her left hand. “It’s a little early, but we want them to be healed before the honeymoon.”

“He let you book an appointment at the last minute?” Aziraphale asked, somewhat incredulous. Crowley’s books tended to fill up months in advance — despite his best efforts, he was wildly popular, and had developed something of a cult following in the tattoo blogger scene.

Adam cleared his throat and gave a wry smile. “I had a word with him,” he said, leaning back against the counter in a very Crowley-esque pose. 

That explained it. Crowley was a sucker when it came to children, always had been. While he would have gladly told Anathema and Newt to stuff it, he wouldn’t have said no to Adam for anything. He’d also probably taken great joy in cancelling on some wealthy client who’d booked six months in advance, which was just icing on the cake.

Newt made a face. “I’m still not so sure about the whole thing,” he said. “I mean, I never really thought of myself as a tattoo person, you know?”

Anathema rolled her eyes. Clearly this was something he’d already said many, many times, and she was tired of rebutting it. “There’s no such thing as a tattoo person, babe. Everyone has them nowadays.”

“Mr. Fell has a tattoo,” Adam said brightly. “Mr. Crowley told me about it.”

“Really?”

Aziraphale had known that was going to come back to bite him. His cheeks flamed as he tried to think of a way to downplay it. “I ah, well, just a small one really. Call it a youthful indiscretion,” he said with a forced laugh. This was more than a bit of a lie, since it actually took up quite a lot of real estate on his back. (And he’d gotten it on his thirtieth birthday.)

Anathema clapped her hands together. “God, you’re so cool! See Newt, if Aziraphale can do it, you totally can too.”

“Did it hurt?” Newt asked uneasily.

Aziraphale swallowed. “Er, not terribly so.” 

_“You’re doing so well, angel,” Crowley had murmured. “Almost done.”_

_Aziraphale bit his lip and closed his eyes. The needle itself wasn’t excruciatingly painful, but staying so still for so long was starting to do a number on his back._

_The buzzing stopped, and Crowley wiped a stray drop of ink away. “There, all done.”_

_Aziraphale exhaled and rolled his shoulders. Before he could move to the mirror, he felt Crowley place a soft kiss on the nape of his neck._

_“Some of my best work, I’ll wager. Though it helps to have such a beautiful canvas.” He ran his gloved fingertips across the delicate grayscale wings that now graced his shoulderblades. “Just beautiful.”_

“You should go with them, Mr. Fell,” Adam said. “For, you know, moral support.” 

Under normal circumstances Aziraphale might have been suspicious of the mischievous glint in the boy’s eye, but he was so flustered by the suggestion that it completely slipped his notice. “Oh, I’m not sure that’s a very good idea,” he demurred.

“Oh yeah, come with us!” Anathema said. “You deserve a break anyway.”

Aziraphale hesitated. He hadn’t been inside Ninth Circle Ink in years — too many painful memories. But Adam and Anathema were giving him their best pleading puppy dog eyes, which he could never refuse. Besides, Crowley burst into the flower shop unannounced all the time, so it was only fair. That thought cheered him, so it was mostly in the spirit of turnabout that he found himself agreeing. “Ah, of course. If you’d like.”

**********

Ninth Circle Ink’s facade had long been a point of contention between Crowley and the neighbors, who considered it a blight on the neighborhood. It looked for all the world like a seedy hole-in-the-wall shop guaranteed to give you a staph infection along with your misspelled tattoo — the red paint was peeling from the walls like a bad sunburn, the windows were completely opaque with grime. The only part of the exterior that ever received maintenance was the sign above the door which read “Abandon hope, all ye who enter here” in careful gothic script.

The interior was a different story entirely. Tidy, minimalist, and sterile as an operating room, it screamed serious professionalism. The polished concrete floors gleamed, as did the chrome light fixtures (all equipped with low wattage bulbs that were soft enough for Crowley to be able to work without his sunglasses). Were it not for a few framed Sailor Jerry’s prints on the walls and a snake terrarium in one corner, it could have been mistaken for a high-end dermatology clinic. 

Crowley was just putting the finishing touches on a young woman’s sleeve as the foursome entered the shop. He gave a slight jerk of his head towards the reception area, not looking up. “Be done here in a minute, take a load off.”

The grown-ups acquiesced, but Adam wandered over to the workstation and peered over Crowley’s shoulder. “Oh cool, is that the TARDIS?” he asked.

“Nothing gets by you,” Crowley muttered, not looking up from the tiny 2-D police box.

The young woman smiled. “Aw, is this your son?”

She was very, very lucky Crowley had chosen that moment to lift the tip of his gun. He jerked backwards, spitting out a series of incongruent syllables. 

Adam grinned and slung an arm around Crowley’s shoulders. “Oh yeah, it’s take your son to work day. Dear old dad’s favorite day of the year.”

Crowley grit his teeth. “Get off me, hellspawn,” he said, though his voice lacked any actual malice.

Adam, ever a daring child, reached up and ruffled Crowley’s hair. “That’s not a very nice thing to say to your son.”

“Not my son.”

“Oh, c’mon, dad--”

“You’re grounded.”

Over in the waiting area, Aziraphale perched on the edge of a sleek leather sofa and folded his hands in his lap. He hoped he looked more comfortable than he felt. (He didn’t.)

Anathema had no such troubles. She plopped down beside him, comfortable as could be, and reached for one of the flash books on the coffee table. 

“Shit, he does some good work,” she said, turning through the first few pages. 

Crowley’s style was mostly neo-traditional, though as she flipped through the book, Aziraphale could see hints of the international influences he’d picked up on their travels together. One section showed the dark, intricate kirituhi designs he’d been taught by a family of Māori artists during the summer they’d been in New Zealand (Aziraphale had spent the entire trip eating his weight in pavlova). Yet another showcased a series of snakes influenced by a visit to Lyle Tuttle’s shop in San Francisco (Aziraphale still dreamed of Mission burritos the way a war widow might dream of her lost husband). There was even a small section of trash polka-inspired pieces he’d drawn up while they were in Germany (Aziraphale had spent much of the trip laid up in bed with flu, but he remembered the _dampfnudel_ they’d had on the first night had been quite nice). 

Crowley’s art was a reflection of himself — a beautiful, messy, contradictory-but-still-cohesive patchwork quilt of experiences and influences. He absorbed knowledge and experience like a sponge and made it a part of himself, whether he was conscious of it or not. It was probably why he kept his exterior appearance and surroundings so cooly minimalist; he contained so many vast multitudes, anything on top of that would have just been more noise. 

Aziraphale, on the other hand, was a magpie. Since shucking off his vows of poverty and asceticism, he’d grown to love the simple pleasure of owning things, of surrounding himself with the treasures and souvenirs of a life well-lived. His tiny flat was packed with them — novelty coffee mugs, seashells, outdated travel guidebooks, ticket stubs, Christmas cards, beer mats, old letters. Bits of seaglass and smooth stones found their way into his pockets during every beach trip; every theatre program he’d ever been handed was tucked away in a collection of binders on a bookshelf. He even had a flower (a daisy, of course) from the first bouquet Crowley had ever brought him, pressed and dried between the pages of an old copy of _Paradise Lost._

He also loved taking pictures. It had actually been a small point of contention between the two of them — everywhere they went, Aziraphale always had a camera in front of his face. Crowley would complain that he was missing out on the experience, that he wasn’t ever properly in the moment. (He also hated having his picture taken, and he was the subject of the majority of the shots.) Aziraphale argued that photos were important for posterity, and for his scrapbooks.

 _C’mon Angel, put the camera down._

_Not just yet. Don’t you want something to remember this trip by?_

_I’m on a gorgeous beach on a gorgeous day with a gorgeous man, I think I’ll be able to remember all of this just fine._

(In the end, Aziraphale was glad he’d taken the pictures anyway.)

Over at his workstation, Crowley was finishing wrapping the young woman’s arm in cling film. 

“God this is so cool,” she said, admiring the artwork. Can I get a picture with you? My friends are gonna be so jealous that I got an Anthony Crowley original.”

“Abso-fucking-lutely not,” Crowley growled. 

She shrugged and made her way out of the shop, still twisting and turning her arm to better see the full design.

“It was nice meeting you and your son!” she called before shutting the door behind her.

Crowley sneered and shot a withering glare at Adam, who just laughed. When he looked back over at the waiting area, he let out a sharp whistle and jerked his head towards the chair. “Alright, you two.”

Anathema jumped up and grabbed Newt’s hand, dragging him over. 

As Crowley got them set up Aziraphale stood off to the side awkwardly, twisting his hands in front of himself. It didn’t seem that Anathema would actually need all that much moral support; she was happily chattering away to Crowley about how she’d come up with the design. It seemed impolite to leave though, even if he did technically have a business to get back to. He cast a wary eye around the shop, which hadn’t changed much since the last time he’d been in, and spied the terrarium in the corner.

“Alastor!” He cried. “Dear fellow, I haven’t seen you in years.” He glanced at Crowley. “Do you mind if I hold him?”

Crowley didn’t look up from his stencil. “Knock yourself out.”

Newt paled as Aziraphale crossed to the terrarium. “Is that really a good idea?”

“Newt’s afraid of snakes too,” Anathema said, though it was hardly a necessary statement. The poor man was already shifting from foot to foot, watching nervously as Aziraphale lifted the lid of the enclosure.

“Not afraid,” he protested. “Just er, not a fan. It’s an evolutionary instinct, everyone is uncomfortable around them.”

His argument was severely weakened as Aziraphale cooed over the snake. “Oh, hello you. Still beautiful as ever, I see.” Alastor instantly slithered up his hand, twining himself around a tweed-clad forearm. Aziraphale gingerly lifted him up and pressed a kiss to the top of his shiny head.

Anathema raised an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t have pegged you as a reptile guy.”

“Oh, I love all of God’s creatures,” Aziraphale replied, tickling Alastor’s chin. The snake preened, slithering farther up his arm and draping himself across the florist’s shoulders. 

“Regular James Herriot, he is,” Crowley muttered. “He’s the one who gave me the blasted thing in the first place.”

“Oh, don’t listen to him, he loves dear little Alastor. He was delighted to receive him. Like a child on Christmas, it was quite sweet.” Aziraphale raised his chin and smirked at Crowley. Tit for tat, as they say. If Crowley could embarrass him with disclosures of his sexual proclivities, Aziraphale could return the favor by letting Anathema and Newt know what a secret softie he really was.

Crowley shot him a withering glare. “You knew damn well those things can live into their thirties. Blasted thing refuses to die.”

Aziraphale tutted. “Don’t listen to your father, dear,” he said, petting Alastor’s shiny head. “He loves you and would be devastated to lose you.”

Crowley let out a snarl but said nothing else, just gestured for Anathema to get into the chair. She sat down, still comfortable as anything, while Newt nervously reviewed the paperwork Crowley had given him. 

“You can be allergic to ink?” he squeaked.

“Weeeeell yeah, you can be allergic to anything,” Crowley said, shrugging. “There’s even people who’re allergic to sunshine.” He thought about it for a moment. “At least I think I read that somewhere. Sunshine allergies, yeah. Or is that just vampires?” 

“I thought vampires were allergic to garlic,” Adam said.

Crowley nodded. “‘Course, everyone knows that. But aren’t they allergic to sunshine too? Get all fizzly and start melting an’ stuff.” He waved a hand and made a hissy wheeze of a sound effect.

“In any case,” Anathema said, laying a hand on Newt’s arm, “I’m sure neither of us will be allergic to ink. And even if we were, Mr. Crowley would know what to do.”

Crowley smirked. “I mean, probably. There’s a reason I make you sign a waiver.”

Anathema seemed to take comfort in Crowley’s feigned flippancy, somehow knowing that he could be so inherently trusted. She settled back in the chair and gave Newt’s arm a reassuring squeeze. 

Crowley prepared the transfer paper with the designs she had come up with (a series of tiny interlocking Celtic knots) and carefully wrapped it around the base of her ring finger.

“How long have you been tattooing?” she asked.

“Longer ‘n you’ve been alive, probably,” Crowley said gruffly. He peeled away the paper, leaving behind the purpled temporary outline. “How’s that look?”

“Perfect.” Anathema beamed and held up her hand to Newt. “See honey, doesn’t that look great?”

Newt took her hand in his and peered at it. “Actually that does look pretty cool,” he admitted.

“Don’t sound so surprised,” Crowley sneered. He jerked his head towards Adam. “Kid, grab me an ink cap, will you? A nine’ll do.” 

“Of course, _dad_ ,” Adam teased, handing him the plastic cap. 

“Shut it.” Crowley grabbed the cap and filled it with ink. He turned back to Anathema and nodded to the outline on her hand. “That work for you? Speak now or forever hold your peace.”

Anathema nodded solemnly. “Let’s do this.” She held out her hand to Crowley, who placed it on the padded arm of the chair.

Newt took her other hand, though it seemed to be more for his own comfort than her own. He watched as Crowley touched the needle to the outline and began to trace his way across the delicate skin of her finger. 

Anathema sucked in her breath, then smiled. “Oh, that’s not so bad at all!” She gave Newt’s hand another squeeze as she watched Crowley work, not realizing that the color had begun to drain from her fiance’s face.

Aziraphale did notice this, as well as the fact that Newt had taken a small step backward. He moved forward and rested a hand on the younger man’s bicep. “My dear boy, are you quite alright?”

Newt jumped slightly and looked down at Aziraphale’s shoulder, where Alastor was still perched. Locking eyes with the snake, the rest of the color drained from his face. He swayed slightly, dropped Anathema’s hand, then went completely limp. Before Aziraphale had time to catch him, he crumpled to the floor, smacking his head against the polished concrete with a sickening thud.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Ariana Grande's "Tattooed Heart"


	8. we laugh, we fumble, we take it day by day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A series of snapshots from 1990-2003.

**1990**

When Aziraphale and Crowley finally did engage in _funny business_ , Aziraphale cried.

It wasn’t that it was unpleasant, quite the opposite in fact — Crowley had been wonderful, so attentive and patient and loving, making sure he felt safe and positively cherished. But afterwards, Aziraphale felt the old doubts begin to creep in. Though he knew there wasn’t actually anything wrong with what they had done, he couldn’t help but feel a small measure of shame crawl down his spine, a feeling of guilt and wrongness. He’d done something he couldn’t take back, burned his very last bridge, and the air of finality that accompanied it was hard to grapple with.

Crowley held him as he cried. He cradled Aziraphale to his chest like he was something precious, something worthy of being treasured, and pressed kiss upon kiss to his downy blond curls.

“It’s alright, angel,” he said softly, stroking Aziraphale’s back. “We’re gonna be alright.”

They stayed like that for several minutes, clinging to each other for dear life. But later, after Crowley had fallen into a deep sleep, Aziraphale still found himself wide awake. 

He hated that he had made such a spectacle of himself. He hated that what should have been such a beautiful, precious moment had to be tarnished by latent feelings of guilt and shame. There shouldn’t have been anything shameful about it, especially not with Crowley.

Dear, sweet Crowley. He hadn’t even blinked at Aziraphale’s tears, had simply held him close and let him cry himself out. He wasn’t even sure Crowley enjoyed himself, because he had been so focused on taking care of Aziraphale. He was always doing that, and it was getting hard for Aziraphale to believe himself worthy of such love and devotion. 

Was this enough for Crowley? Was Aziraphale enough for him? What would happen if he suddenly grew bored with him, decided he wanted to be with someone more experienced, someone with significantly less baggage?

A chill ran down Aziraphale’s spine at the very thought of it. He’d given up everything, absolutely everything for this relationship, and until that very moment it hadn’t occurred to him that he might one day lose Crowley too.

He turned on his side to look at the man in question, who was sprawled out across his side of the bed, arms and legs akimbo. A pale sliver of moonlight crept in from beneath the blinds, illuminating his pale, jagged features. Aziraphale reached out, tracing the freshly-healed snake tattoo on Crowley’s temple with an index finger. 

“Entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee,” he whispered, suddenly overcome with a deep, fervent need to speak the words. He’d heard them spoken at countless weddings and sermons and bible study sessions, but they’d never quite resonated with him like they did here in this moment. 

He kept his voice low, barely audible to his own ears, so as to not wake Crowley. “For whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God. Where thou diest, will I die, and there will I be buried: the lord do so to me, and more also, if ought but death part thee and me.”

Aziraphale sealed his promise with a featherlight kiss to Crowley’s forehead, then snuggled back down against his chest. Within minutes he fell into a deep, if slightly uneasy, sleep.

  


**********

Crowley stumbled into the kitchen the next morning, bleary-eyed and pillowcreased.

“Oh good, you’re awake!” Aziraphale chirped. He had already been awake and dressed for hours, and was now sitting at the kitchen table beside a stack of newspapers. 

Crowley grunted and shuffled over to plant a sleepy kiss against Aziraphale’s curls. “What’re you doing?” he mumbled, wrapping his arms around his love’s shoulders and resting his chin on the top of his head. 

“I’m job hunting!” Aziraphale said proudly, gesturing to the annotated Help Wanted ads in front of himself. “If I’m going to be staying with you long-term I’d like to start pulling my weight, so to speak, as soon as possible.”

Crowley sighed. “You really don’t have to do that. You’ve been through hell and back, it’s okay if you want to just, I dunno. Relax for a while longer. I really don’t mind taking on the extra shifts at the pub.”

Aziraphale gave a minute shake of his head and lifted his hands to rest on Crowley’s forearms. “You’re sweet to say that—”

“‘M not sweet. It’s tough and manly, wanting to provide for you.”

Aziraphale smiled. “Of course, dear. Even so, I think it’s best that I try to get out and adjust to civilian life as soon as possible. And that starts with my finding a job.” He thought it best to leave out the part about his panic spiral the night before, the tiny nugget of worry that had lodged itself beneath his breastbone when he realized how precarious his situation was.

Crowley was silent for several moments, and for a second Aziraphale wondered if he had nodded off. Finally, he sighed. “Alright, whatever you say.” He untangled himself from Aziraphale and plopped down in the chair opposite. “What sort of _civilian jobs_ were you looking at?”

“Well, originally I had thought about becoming a librarian,” Aziraphale said, shuffling through the pages in front of him. “But it seems you need a degree in library sciences for that. So then I thought about working in a bookshop, but no one seems to be hiring. And then I saw this,” he said, handing Crowley a torn-out ad.

Crowley wrinkled his nose. “Florist’s assistant? Do you even know anything about flowers?”

Aziraphale shrugged. “I know quite a bit about Victorian floriography, which must count for something. But it says no experience needed.”

“Which is code for ‘the pay is shit.’”

Aziraphale snatched the ad back. “Everyone has to start somewhere,” he said primly. “Now what would you like for breakfast? I was thinking crepes.”

  


**********

Elsie & Co. Arrangements was a tiny, hole-in-the-wall shop that only stayed afloat by the sheer grace of God and a handful of devoted regulars.

Its proprietor and namesake was a tiny Irishwoman with a sweet smile and an encyclopedic memory for floral varieties and episodes of _Casualty_. She and her husband Patrick had first opened the shop shortly after the war, and they had run it together up until 1972, when he’d been struck and killed by a lorry. She had been running it by herself ever since, but her arthritis had recently grown to be debilitating, which precipitated her need for an assistant. She hired Aziraphale on the spot, not caring a whit about his lack of CV.

“You’ve got a good heart, I can tell,” she said after his interview, which was less of an actual interview and more of her serving him tea and showing him pictures of Patrick. “That’s all that matters, really.”

It was good that she genuinely believed that, because he was terrible at floral arrangements in the beginning. Really, truly horrendous. He had no sense of color palettes whatsoever, and he was disappointed to learn that his knowledge of Victorian floriography was not nearly as useful as he had expected. 

But Elsie was patient. She couldn’t do the arrangements herself, but she was perfectly happy to sit on a stool beside Aziraphale and walk him through the processes.

_Don’t go too wild with it, dear. No more than five types of flowers or greens in an arrangement, otherwise it just looks a mess._

_Cut the stems at an angle, it’ll help them absorb water better._

_Tuck a sprig of basil in, just for luck. Poor boy says he’s proposing tonight, looks like he needs all the help he can get._

In time, Aziraphale got better. He started to understand which blooms went together and which ones clashed, when to use a filler and when to stay minimalist. Elsie began letting him assemble arrangements without supervision, and he learned to stop fearing a Gabriel-esque reprimand when he made a mistake. It was a far-cry from providing spiritual counsel to the injured and ill, but he grew to love it all the same.

  


**1991**

“Angel, come in here!”

Aziraphale frowned and looked up from his copy of _Middlemarch_. “What is it?”

“A surprise, come in here!”

Aziraphale glanced up at the clock and realized he’d completely lost track of time. Crowley had been in the bathroom for the better part of two hours, which didn’t seem to bode well. And Crowley knew full well that he loathed surprises. Still, he dutifully set down his book, then crossed to the bathroom door and knocked. 

The door swung open, revealing a smug-looking Crowley with his hands behind his back. The small counter beside the sink was littered with scraps of paper, bits of gauze and tape, tiny black-stained needles, and a pair of bright purple rubber gloves. Aziraphale’s eyebrows shot towards his hairline. “What’s all this?”

Crowley beamed. “I got a stick ‘n poke kit today,” he said, nodding towards the mess on the counter. “Dagon said it would be good practice, outside of just using the gun on oranges and pigskin.” 

After getting his sleeve done, Crowley had developed a near-obsessive interest in tattoo art; it had become just about all he could talk about. At Aziraphale’s urging he had started an apprenticeship at a seedy local shop, which had only fueled his obsession even more. 

Now he removed his hands from behind his back and held out his left forearm to reveal the tiny black outline of a daisy that now graced the inner crook of his elbow. “What do you think?” he asked, almost shyly.

Aziraphale gasped and reached out, then hesitated. “Is it, er, dry? Can I touch it?”

“‘Course,” Crowley said, shuffling forward.

Aziraphale traced his index finger across the tiny petals. “It’s quite good,” he said. “And so even, I’m impressed. But why was that the first design you tried?”

Crowley cocked his head to the side. “It’s a daisy.”

“I can see that. But why?”

Crowley scrubbed his free hand across the back of his neck. “Well, ‘cause they’re your favorite flower, yeah? And you’re my favorite...well, everything, really.”

Something soft and warm bubbled up in Aziraphale’s core. “You soppy old thing, you,” he said, beaming. 

Crowley sniffed. “Yeah, well. Don’t go spreading that around. Got a reputation to maintain.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Aziraphale smiled and pressed a delicate kiss to the center of the daisy.

Crowley blushed. “D’you like it then?”

“Oh my darling, I love it. And you.”

  


**1994**

Aziraphale was in the back room finishing an alstroemeria arrangement when the bell above the shop’s door chimed.

“Mornin’ dearie, how can I help you?”

“Er yeah, is Aziraphale in? Thought I’d bring him some lunch.”

The blonde’s stomach dropped. Kind as she was, Elsie still didn’t know about Crowley, and Aziraphale had rather hoped to keep it that way. He dropped the bouquet and hurried to the storefront, where Crowley was standing with a takeaway bag from their favorite Indian restaurant.

“Oh, thanks very much, dear fellow,” he said quickly, taking the proffered bag. “Elsie, this is Anthony, my er, flatmate,” he said. He didn’t miss the flicker of curiosity that crossed Elsie’s face, nor the one of disappointment on Crowley’s. 

That made Aziraphale’s stomach turn. He knew Crowley would understand that it wasn’t worth hanging his employment future on the tolerance (or lack thereof) of a pensioner, but that didn’t make it any easier. 

Crowley stuffed his hands in his pockets and gave a jerky nod. “Er, yeah. Yeah. Right, well. I’ll just be going then,” he said. He hesitated a moment, then turned on heel and exited the shop.

Elsie moved to the front window to catch a last glimpse of him before he disappeared around the corner. The shop was quiet, quieter than usual. Aziraphale fiddled with the the takeaway bag, which was warm and smelled of lamb biryani. He knew when he opened it he would also find a double order of naan and a container of raita. Crowley had all of his go-to orders memorized, like the dear sweet thing he was.

Elsie finally broke the silence, still staring out the window. “He’s your flatmate?” 

“Ah, yes. Has been for about three years now.”

“He’s quite a handsome one.”

Aziraphale cleared his throat and began fussing with the lip of the bag. “Is he? I didn’t er...wouldn’t really notice that sort of thing.” As if anyone would be able to not notice how devastatingly attractive Crowley was. Just two days prior Aziraphale had watched a woman walk straight into a lamppost after catching sight of him. He had that effect on people everywhere they went, regardless of gender or relationship status.

Elsie turned to him, raising a silvered eyebrow. “Really?”

Aziraphale felt his cheeks flame. “I ah, well—“

“Pity,” she said, cutting him off. She turned to look out the window once more. “I think you two would make a lovely couple.”

Aziraphale’s jaw dropped. Of all the reactions he had anticipated, that was absolutely the last one he had expected. “Oh. I...well, to be perfectly honest, we sort of are. A couple. The lovely part is debatable, but er, yes.”

Elsie turned back to him, eyes twinkling. “Thought so. Bring him round for dinner on Friday, he looks like he could use a nice home-cooked meal.”

  


**********

When Aziraphale returned home that evening, Crowley was sat at the kitchen table, furiously scratching away on his sketchpad. He didn’t look up at the sound of the door closing, nor at the soft steps padding across the kitchen floor.

Aziraphale hesitated, unsure if he was allowed to reach out. He could see the white-knuckle grip Crowley had on his pencil, could see the vague hint of pain on his face. 

“Hello, darling.”

“Hey.”

Aziraphale folded his hands in front of his stomach and shifted from foot to foot. “I didn’t get a chance to properly thank you for lunch,” he said, with a false cheery tone. “That was terribly sweet of you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

He didn’t even flinch at the word sweet, which was always a bad sign. Aziraphale swallowed. “I’m sorry that I—“

“Don’t.”

“But I—“

Crowley let out a frustrated sigh and dropped his pencil. “Aziraphale, seriously, you don’t have to. I get it. You were at work, I made you uncomfortable, and it was stupid of me.” He scrubbed a hand down his face. “If anything, I should be apologizing to you.”

Aziraphale’s stomach dropped. “Don’t you dare,” he said quietly. He cupped Crowley’s cheek and tilted his head so they could make proper eye contact. 

Crowley closed his eyes, exhaling slowly through his nose. “It was stupid, I could’ve cost you your job.”

“There are worse reasons to be fired,” Aziraphale said, running his thumb across Crowley’s cheekbone. “And if the world were a kinder place, I would have grabbed you and snogged the daylights out of you right on the spot.”

Crowley opened his eyes, expression softening. “Yeah?”

Aziraphale smiled. “I mean it. You don’t know how difficult it is to walk down the street beside you and not scream to every passing stranger about how completely and utterly besotted I am with you.”

Crowley smirked and reached forward, wrapping his arms around Aziraphale’s hips. Burrowing his face in the soft, tweed-clad stomach, he huffed a laugh. “I feel the same way, angel.”

They stayed like that for several minutes, with Crowley snuggling close and Aziraphale carding his hands through his hair. _Someday_ , he thought. _Someday we won’t have to be discreet, and I’ll be able to call you mine in public._

That thought reminded him of his second item of business. “I should mention, I actually did end up telling Elsie how besotted I am with you,” he said, tracing his index finger along Crowley’s hairline. “She thinks we make a lovely couple.”

Crowley’s eyes popped open. “What? Way to bury the lede, angel!” 

Aziraphale shrugged. “I’m sorry, it didn’t seem as important as apologizing to you. She’s invited us round to dinner this Friday.”

Crowley groaned and released Aziraphale, flopping back in his chair. “I suppose you’ve already said we’ll both be there with bells on.”

Ignoring the fact that those had been his exact words, Aziraphale pursed his lips. “I have, and you’re not backing out. It was a lovely gesture on her part.”

Crowley pulled a face and slumped further in his chair. “Fine. But just this once, okay? Don’t think for a second that his is going to turn into some kind of _thing_.”

  


**********

Friday night dinner did turn into a “thing” — a longstanding and much beloved thing for all parties involved. Elsie would cook dinner for “her boys”, who in turn took to helping her with odd jobs — changing lightbulbs, taking out the trash, organizing her VHS recordings of _Casualty_ in chronological order. It warmed Aziraphale’s heart to see how well Crowley and Elsie got along; she delighted in his acerbic wit, and he loved her stories and impromptu botany lessons. They were the two most important people in Aziraphale’s life, and to be able to spend time like this, the three of them together, was a joy.

One of the things he had loved best about the church was the sense of community it had given him, and when he left the seminary he had worried he would lose that forever. But the sense of belonging that he felt when he was with the two of them was so much stronger and so much better than anything he had felt while he was at Allen Hall. It was acceptance. It was love.

It was family.

  


**1998**

“What do you think?” Aziraphale asked breathlessly.

Crowley glanced up at the building in front of them, noting the For Lease sign in the window. “I think it looks like an empty storefront.”

“But it doesn’t have to be empty for long! It’s going for a very reasonable price. I spoke to the estate agent this morning when she came by to hang up the sign.”

Crowley looked from Aziraphale to the shop, then back to Aziraphale, clearly not getting it.

Aziraphale laid a hand on his arm. “Darling, you’ve been talking about opening your own shop for years now,” he said quietly. 

Crowley’s eyes widened, and Aziraphale could feel his bicep tighten beneath the fabric of his jacket. “Oh angel, I don’t think—“

“You’d be able to get a small business loan easily,” Aziraphale continued. “Elsie said she’s willing to be a guarantor for you if need be. And the local business owner’s association is keen to get someone in here, they’re not fond of empty shopfronts.” 

Crowley opened his mouth to respond, then closed it, then opened it again. He spluttered out a few disjointed syllables, then grimaced and scratched the back of his neck. “Christ, I dunno angel. Sort of a lot to process.”

“I understand,” Aziraphale said, squeezing his arm gently. They were still out on the street, so he didn’t want to chance anything more in the way of public affection. “But think about it, won’t you? This could be the opportunity you’ve been waiting for. Plus, you’d be ever so close to me,” he added, gesturing to Elsie’s shop across the street.

Crowley smirked. “Why angel, you wouldn’t happen to have an ulterior motive here, would you?”

“Perish the thought.”

Crowley snickered and looked back to the shopfront, which he had to admit was looking more and more appealing by the second. “Alright, alright. I promise I’ll think about it. But don’t get your hopes up, I don’t think there’s any way they’d let me put a tattoo parlor in here.”

  


**1999/2000**

Crowley and Aziraphale had it all planned out — they would ring in the new millennium in Paris. They’d hired a snake-sitter for Alastor, booked an obscenely nice hotel room, bought several bottles of champagne, and scoped out the best places to watch the fireworks from.

But Crowley had developed a truly spectacular migraine less than an hour after they’d checked into the hotel, and he had spent the rest of the evening alternating between vomiting and lying on the bed in the fetal position. He faded in and out of fitful sleep for hours, thrashing in the starched hotel sheets and trying to stifle his tiny cries of pain in the eiderdown pillows. 

Aziraphale fussed and fluttered around him, trying to be helpful whilst making no noise. He never knew quite what to do when Crowley was having a particularly bad attack, and it made him sick to his stomach to see his love in so much pain. 

Eventually his silent pacing was interrupted when he passed too close to the bed and Crowley reached out and grabbed his sleeve. 

“Angel.”

Aziraphale cupped Crowley’s hand in both of his own. “How are you feeling?”

”Like there’s an ice pick in my left temple,” Crowley muttered. He scooted back on the bed to make room and gave his hands an insistent tug. “C’mere.”

Aziraphale sat down on the bed and leaned against the headrest. “Would you like me to try the acupressure that the doctor showed us?” he asked, moving his fingers along the tendons of Crowley’s wrist. “I think I remember how to do it.”

“No.” Crowley scooted forward again,wrapping his arms around Aziraphale’s plush thigh and pressing his face to the faded corduroy. “Just. Stay.”

Aziraphale ran a hand through his hair, smoothing the scarlet strands away from his forehead. “Of course. Always.”

The dawn of the new millennium saw them both fast asleep, curled around each other in the center of the enormous bed. Outside on the streets of Paris, people cheered and kissed and sang beneath a blinding display of candy-colored pyrotechnics. Inside the hotel room Crowley snuffled softly in his sleep, and Aziraphale unconsciously tightened his protective grip.

  


**2003**

Elsie’s funeral was on a rainy Tuesday in May.

It was the first time Aziraphale had been inside a church in years; part of him almost wondered whether the consecrated ground would scorch his feet. But no, he was allowed passage into the chapel, as was a very nervous-looking Crowley.

There were just a few other mourners dotting the oak pews, mostly shop regulars and members of the WI. He and Crowley settled into the second pew alongside an elderly couple he didn’t recognize who were already kneeling, whispering over their rosaries.

Crowley reached for his hand, moving to twine their fingers together as he had a thousand times before. 

Aziraphale froze. His eyes slid to the altar, to the crucifix on the wall, to the elderly couple.

“Best not,” he said, removing his hand from Crowley’s. “I’m sorry, love, but not here.”

Crowley pursed his lips into a thin line but said nothing. He turned his head back to the pulpit with an inscrutable look on his face. 

The service was uneventful and somewhat impersonal, save for Aziraphale’s reading of Christina Rossetti’s “Remember.” It hurt his heart to be behind the pulpit once more, staring out into the open faces of a congregation, though he chose to focus on one face in particular. Crowley tipped his sunglasses down just a fraction so they could make proper eye contact, which Aziraphale held like a lifeline.

_When you can no more hold me by the hand,_  
_nor I half turn to go yet turning stay._  
_Remember me when no more day by day_  
_you tell me of our future that you planned..._

They followed the hearse to the cemetery, where they were joined by the elderly couple (whom Aziraphale learned were Elsie’s distant cousins) and a tall, dour-looking man with a briefcase whom Aziraphale did not recognize. The priest spoke a few familiar words and scattered a handful of dirt over the simple maple coffin, and then it was over. 

As the priest and the cousins made their way out Aziraphale remained where he was, rooted in place. He felt lost, adrift in a way he hadn’t been in a very long time. Elsie and the flower shop had been been such a staple in his life, a foundation upon which he had built his life with Crowley, and in a moment they had both been snatched away from him. Where would he work? Who would he go to for advice? What were they going to do on Friday nights now?

Crowley seemed to understand the existential crisis that was at hand. He stood by Aziraphale’s side; not touching, but close enough so that his presence could be felt. 

A few moments later, his reverie was broken by a polite cough. He turned to see the man with the briefcase, who now looked much kinder than he had a few minutes prior.

“I do apologize for the interruption, but are you by any chance Mr. Fell?”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to answer but Crowley cut him off. “Who’s asking?” 

“My apologies.” The man bowed his head slightly. “I’m Peter Kingdom, from Kingdom & Kingdom. I’m the solicitor for Elsie Broadbent’s estate.”

Aziraphale felt Crowley begin to relax slightly. “Right, yes, I’d been planning on ringing your office first thing Monday morning,” he said. “I’m afraid I’m not sure how in order her affairs were, so if you need keys to the shop or the flat you’re welcome to have my set. Won’t be needing them anymore, I suppose.”

Peter shook his head slowly. “No, that’s what I’ve come to speak to you about. You will be needing them. Or I suppose not, the choice is yours.”

Aziraphale frowned. “Pardon?”

Peter reached into his briefcase and retrieved a small sheaf of papers, which he handed to Aziraphale. “It appears you were the sole individual beneficiary of Miss Broadbent’s estate. She’s left a small sum to the Royal Horticultural Society, but the deeds for the shop and the flat are yours. Well, she specifically said the flat was for you and your ‘young man’, who I would assume is…?” he gestured towards Crowley. 

Aziraphale nodded, dazed. “This is my partner, Anthony.” Without thinking he reached out his free hand and settled it on the small of Crowley’s back, instinctively seeking out his comforting warmth and solidity. 

Peter smiled warmly. “Anthony. As I was saying, she owned the building, had done since the mid-sixties. She’s left you the deed and requested that the business licenses be transferred to your name.”

Aziraphale stared blankly at the papers in front of him, unable to process the words on the page. He ran his thumb across Elsie’s shaky signature in the bottom left corner. “I…” he didn’t know how to finish that sentence, or if he had intended to finish it in the first place. He distantly heard Peter say something about discussing the particulars the following week, and heard himself agreeing. 

Satisfied, Peter said his goodbyes and made his way out of the cemetery towards an immaculate Alvis coupé.

Crowley whistled softly. “Hell of a car,” he said. 

Aziraphale didn’t respond, couldn’t respond.

“Angel?”

Aziraphale blinked up at him slowly, trying to corral his thoughts into something coherent. 

“I have a flower shop,” he said eventually. The sentence felt curious on his tongue, unfamiliar and not quite right.

Crowley puffed out his cheeks and exhaled slowly. “Looks like it.”

“And a flat.”

“Yep.”

“And a headache.” Aziraphale pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed.

“Not surprised, it’s been a long day,” Crowley said. “C’mon angel, let’s go home.”

Aziraphale cast one last look at Elsie’s casket and nodded. He took Crowley’s arm and allowed himself to be led out of the cemetery, towards a future that seemed much more certain than it had just a few minutes prior.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elsie needed a solicitor and I was tired, so I borrowed Peter Kingdom from the show Kingdom. His car plus the Stephen Fry/Michael Sheen connection made for a natural (if very brief) crossover. 
> 
> Also if anyone has done artwork for this fic, let me know so I can link to it in the notes!
> 
> Title from What More Can I Say? from Falsettoland/Falsettos (I prefer the original Falsettoland version, but either way that song perfectly fits this iteration of A/C and how Aziraphale felt during the early years of their relationship.)


	9. this could be the end of everything, so why don't we go somewhere only we know?

**2019**

“Really, I’m fine,” Newt said, as Anathema dabbed at the cut on his scalp. “I just need to go lie down, no need to make a fuss.”

“But you did hit your head ever so hard,” Aziraphale said, twisting his hands nervously. “And you were unconscious for nearly a minute. I really think we ought to take you to hospital.”

“I really don’t think it’s that serious,” Newt said petulantly.

In the corner, Crowley removed his rubber gloves with an audible, vaguely menacing snap. “Got a headache?”

Newt frowned. “Yes? But, well, I did just hit my head. Isn’t that to be expected?”

“Ringing in the ears?”

“A little, but—“

“Nausea?”

“Well, now that you mention it—”

“Get in the car.”

Newt looked as if he was going to protest again, but Aziraphale cut him off with a gentle squeeze to his forearm. “Better safe than sorry, hmm? Let’s get you out to the car.” He glanced over at Adam, whose presence had almost been forgotten in the ensuing chaos. “And you should be getting home.”

Adam nodded, for once choosing not to argue. He wandered out of the shop in a slightly shocked daze — this wasn’t how The Plan was supposed to go at all.

Back in the shop, Anathema and Aziraphale helped Newt to his feet. He looked as if he might be about to protest again, but Crowley cut him off.

“Head injuries are no joke kid, believe me,” Crowley growled, yanking his keys from his pocket. He jabbed them in Newt’s general direction. “But if you bleed on the seats I’ll show you less mercy than the floor, you hear me?”

Newt swallowed. “Yes sir.”

The foursome made their way out to the Bentley, where Newt and Anathema were deposited in the backseat. 

Crowley moved to climb into the front seat, and before he had a chance to second guess himself Aziraphale reached out and caught his sleeve. “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked quietly. “I can go with them in a cab if it’s...well, too much.” 

Crowley looked to be on the verge of whipping out a smartass response, but thought better of it. “I’m fine, angel,” he said with a sigh. “It’s been thirty years, not exactly a sore subject anymore.”

Aziraphale nodded and released his sleeve. With Newt splayed out across Anathema’s lap in the backseat, he had no choice but to slip into the passenger’s side.

Crowley got in the driver’s seat and turned to him. “Urgent care?” he asked. “Marylebone is probably closest.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “No, if he needs a CT scan they won’t be able to do it there. Best go to A and E.”

Crowley nodded, for once in rare agreement. “Saint Thomas’ then?”

Aziraphale worried at his lower lip. “He’s likely to be seen sooner at Saint Paul’s.”

Saint Paul’s, where he had done his pastoral placement. Where he and Crowley had first met. Judging by the look on his face, the significance of the location was not lost on Crowley. After a moment he nodded and turned the key in the ignition. 

“Don’t suppose you still have any connections there?” he asked.

Aziraphale cracked a small smile. “I’m afraid not. Didn’t exactly keep in touch with Gabriel after I left.”

Crowley smirked, pulling the car out into the road without looking. “Really? Thought for sure you and he would be Facebook friends. Have him and old Sandalwood over to play bridge every week.”

“Father Sandal _phon_ ,” Aziraphale corrected. Reflexively, he clutched at the material of the seat with one hand and pressed the other against the roof, an all too familiar position after years of riding in the Volkswagen. He would have thought Crowley would be more cautious now that he had a car worth protecting (an accident would have improved the Beetle, if anything), but that was clearly not the case.

“Come to think of it, man’s probably dead by now,” Crowley mused, narrowly dodging a pair of cyclists.

Aziraphale grit his teeth as the Bentley blew through a red light. “Perhaps. He was at least middle-aged when I knew him, and that was thirty years ago.”

“Good riddance.”

“Crowley!”

“Nah, not taking that one back,” Crowley said. “He was a bastard through and through, especially to you. Hope he’s burning in hell now.”

Aziraphale made a small sound of disapproval, though he felt a small spark of warmth in his chest at Crowley’s protectiveness. 

“What are you guys talking about?” Anathema asked, leaning forward in her seat.

Crowley tilted the rear view mirror so he could see her better. “Just taking a stroll down memory lane. How’s the patient?”

“He’s fine,” Newt grumbled. “I still think this is far too much fuss,” he added, though it escaped no one’s notice that he hadn’t opted to remove his head from Anathema’s lap.

The rest of the drive passed in relative silence, the only sounds being the honks and muffled expletives from the other Londoners who had the misfortune of having to share the road with Crowley. By some small miracle there happened to be a free space in the hospital’s car park right by the entrance, which Crowley pulled into with an unholy squealing of brakes.

Aziraphale stared up at the building. It looked...exactly the same as it had thirty years prior. He wasn’t sure what he had expected, some sort of physical manifestation of the passage of time and the personal changes that had taken place in his life. But no, it stood solid and firm, like a relic from a particularly cruel time capsule.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, warm and familiar, and nearly jumped out of his skin. 

Crowley withdrew his hand as if he’d been burned. “You coming?”

“Yes, yes. Of course.”

The waiting area was predictably overcrowded, filled with a sniffling, groaning mass of the injured and infirmed. Aziraphale recoiled at the familiar combined odors of sick and antiseptic. At least this area had been remodeled — the neon plastic seats had been replaced with painted metal ones, the computers at the nurses station seemed to be at least from the last decade, some of the nibbles in the vending machine could be considered vaguely healthful. 

Though he knew the odds of it happening were near nonexistent, Aziraphale couldn’t help but be nervous about the possibility of seeing Gabriel or anyone else from his cohort. Would any of them even recognize him at this point, or remember him? That was a curious thought, one he hadn’t previously considered. They had played such a formative role in his life, but to them he was likely just another forgotten dropout. The circumstances were rather unorthodox, but he was hardly the first or last person to walk away from the seminary. He shifted his shoulders uncomfortably at this thought and cast another wary glance around the miserable room. 

Beside him at the front desk, Anathema was trying to explain the situation to the admitting nurse. 

“Is he showing signs of confusion or slurring his words?” the nurse asked, clearly bored. He was young, probably not a day older than twenty-five, but had the blasé, slightly cynical expression and bearing of a man three times his age.

Anathema looked back at Newt, who had been deposited into one of the metal chairs. “No, he seems okay in that regard.”

“Then I’m afraid it’s going to be a bit of a wait.”

“How long of a wait?”

The nurse shrugged and turned back to his computer.

Aziraphale wrung his hands in front of himself. “But surely if something is wrong, then time is of the essence?”

The nurse didn’t look up from his screen. “I’m sorry sir, you’re just going to have to wait.”

Aziraphale looked back at Newt, who still looked pale and shaky. Unsure of what to do, he shot a pleading glance at Crowley, who sighed. 

“Alright, I’ll take care of it,” he muttered. “My treat.”

He swaggered up, cocked one hip out, and leaned against the counter. The nurse looked up from his computer, then did a double-take.

Crowley glanced down at his name badge and fixed the man with a flirtatious grin. “Stephen, is it?” 

Stephen nodded.

“Always liked that name,” Crowley purred. “Had an old mate named Stephen once, Christ did I fancy him.” He gave the other man a long, obviously appraising look, and let his grin slide into something a little more lascivious. “You look a bit like him actually, now that I mention it. ‘Course, he didn’t have eyes like yours, a man could get well and truly lost in eyes like that.”

It should have been repugnant and embarrassing for all parties involved, but poor Stephen seemed to be eating it up. A soft flush began creeping up his neck as he bit down on his plush lower lip. Clearly the Crowley Effect was just as powerful as ever. 

“This other Stephen was a good friend, was he?” the nurse asked, flashing a coy smile.

Aziraphale, who knew full well that there had never been another Stephen, turned back to Anathema feeling vaguely nauseated. “I have a sneaking suspicion your name will be called next,” he said, tone flat.

He was, of course, correct. Ten minutes later another nurse called for Pulsifer, and Crowley came back with a shit-eating grin and what looked like poor Stephen’s phone number sticking out of his breast pocket.

Anathema helped Newt to his feet and helped him to shuffle towards the waiting nurse, who cast a wary eye at Crowley and Aziraphale. 

“We generally only allow one person to accompany the patient, ‘least until they’re admitted,” she said.

Aziraphale opened his mouth to protest, possibly to lie and claim some sort of relation to Newt (they were both old enough to be the boy’s fathers, though he was loath to admit it), but Crowley cut him off.

“‘Course, we’ll wait here.”

Anathema blinked. “You don’t have to do that. It could be hours.”

Crowley shrugged. “Where else have we got to be?”

_Our respective businesses, for starters_ , Aziraphale thought. But he simply agreed, telling the couple to call him if they needed anything. (He still had never gotten the hang of text messaging, much to the frustrations of the Them.)

Crowley meandered back to the metal chairs and resumed his trademark boneless sprawl. He cocked an eyebrow at Aziraphale and tilted his head in the general direction of the seat next to him, a clear invitation.

Aziraphale chewed his lip. While he had enjoyed this temporary ceasefire, he worried that without the distraction of an immediate medical crisis they would fall back into their usual sniping and backbiting. There had already been enough drama for one day, in his opinion.

“I’m just going to get some air,” he said, more to himself than Crowley. He backtracked through the antiseptic-drenched corridor to the main entrance, trying not to think too hard about the last time he’d been there.

The hydraulic doors (another slight upgrade) released him onto the sidewalk with a soft sigh. Twilight was just beginning to fall, painting the carpark in shades of burgundy and rose gold. Aziraphale took a deep breath of the relatively fresh London air, trying to steady his nerves. Now that the need for urgent action had passed, the events of the past hour had begun to catch up with him, leaving him feeling shaky and tired.

Across the car park a young couple with an impossibly tiny newborn were struggling to install a car seat in the back of their Camry. That is to say, the father was struggling with the seat; the mother was just staring at the baby in abject wonder, as if she couldn’t quite believe it was a real, tangible person now. She carefully shifted her grip and traced her index finger across the baby’s smooth forehead and down its tiny button nose before looking up at her partner and saying something that made them both laugh.

The doors wheezed open behind Aziraphale, and for one heart-stopping second he thought Gabriel was going to waltz through them. But fortunately it was just Crowley, sauntering out with his hands shoved deep in his pockets. He gave a nod to Aziraphale, coming to stand beside him on the curb.

“So this is where you got off to,” he said, rocking back on his heels.

Aziraphale nodded, looking back at the young couple with the baby. “Just needed some air.”

Crowley hummed in acknowledgement. “Bad memories?”

“Not all bad,” Aziraphale said. “But there’s certainly a lot of them.”

Crowley hummed again, turning to watch the couple as they finally managed to click the seat into place. The man punched the air in victory, then turned back to his partner. He looked at her, then down at the baby, then up to her and smiled. Leaning down, he pressed a soft kiss to her smiling lips before taking the baby and settling them in the newly-installed seat.

Out of the corner of his eye Aziraphale could see Crowley watching the couple, and he felt a lump begin to form in his throat. Were they both thinking the same thing?

The man was able to fix the baby into the seat with relatively little difficulty, and with one last kiss the couple got into the car and drove off to start the next phase of their lives. Together.

After the car disappeared from view, Aziraphale cleared his throat. “This is the spot where we first met,” he said quietly. He wasn’t sure what possessed him to mention it, only that it felt like too much of a coincidence to ignore.

Crowley looked up. “Was it?”

Aziraphale gestured to the cement pillar by the main door. “You were smoking over there.”

Crowley stared at the pillar, as if trying to picture it. 

Aziraphale bit his lip, unsure of what else to say. Was it overstepping, mentioning their past?

Crowley rocked back on his heels and turned his gaze back to the car park. “I quit, you know.”

“What?”

“Smoking. I quit.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale raised his eyebrows in disbelief. 

“About ten years ago.” Crowley scratched the back of his neck. “At first I just stopped doing it while I was driving. I’d just got the Bentley and didn’t want to muck up the interior.”

Despite everything, Aziraphale smiled at this. That sounded like the Crowley he knew and—

Well. That sounded like the Crowley he knew.

Crowley stuck his hands back in his pockets. “Then I just figured, I dunno. Didn’t want to end up back here again, you know?” He tilted his head back towards the monolithic building.

Aziraphale’s heart clenched. He could only imagine how difficult that experience must have been for Crowley; he’d been smoking since he was a teenager. Aziraphale had known other people who’d quit and had seen firsthand how difficult it was for them, how sick they became and how irritable and depressed they would get as their brains frantically tried to adjust to life without nicotine. And Crowley had to deal with it all on his own.

Aziraphale swallowed. “That’s quite an achievement.” Then, because he knew no one else would have said it, he added: “I’m...proud of you, Crowley. Really, I am.” He raised a hand to Crowley’s upper arm and gave it a gentle squeeze.

An olive branch extended, offered with trembling hands and more hope in his heart than he had any right to.

Crowley made a small wounded sound. “Don’t.”

“But I mean it, I—“

“Aziraphale, don’t.” Crowley’s tone was warning as he shrugged away from Aziraphale’s touch. “Just stop. You don’t get to say things like that to me anymore. I can’t...what do you want me to do with that?”

An olive branch dashed aside, dropped and splintered on the chewing gum-riddled sidewalk.

Tears pricked at the corners of Aziraphale’s eyes. He knew how he wanted to answer — _forgive me. I want you to forgive me, to find it in yourself to love me again. I want you to hold me and let me tuck my face into the crook of your neck because it’s been fifteen years and I’ve still never found anyplace that feels as safe as your arms._

But he couldn’t say that. It wasn’t fair to ask that of Crowley, not after so much time had passed. He cast his gaze up to the rapidly darkening sky, willing the tears not to fall. “Nothing,” he whispered, folding his arms across his chest. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

He could feel Crowley watching him — even through the sunglasses it made his skin prickle to be watched like that. Aziraphale stared resolutely at the sky, determined not to be the one to break. _You don’t get to say things like that to me anymore._ That answered that question, didn’t it? The enormous, tiny question that had been sitting on the tip of Aziraphale’s tongue for nearly fifteen years — _could we start again, please? Ask me again. Ask me the question you asked me fifteen years ago, and I promise you my answer will be different this time. I’ll say yes and yes and yes again, I’ll kiss yeses into every inch of your skin and then some, if you just ask me again._ But Crowley’s answer had clearly slammed the door on any possibility of that happening, this time for good. 

Eventually Crowley looked away, swearing softly. Out of the corner of his eye, Aziraphale watched as he spun around and slunk back through the double doors. 

Then, only then, did Aziraphale allow the tears to fall. He leaned against the pillar, the same damned cement pillar that Crowley had leaned against nearly thirty years ago, and released a small, aching sob. 

Wiping at the few rogue tears that had managed to slip down his cheeks, he looked up at the sky with a desperate urgency building in his chest. “Please,” he whispered. “I can’t keep doing this. Lord, give me the strength to let him go. I’ll return to the church if that’s what it takes, just please let me fall out of love with him.”

He didn’t know what he had expected, if he really thought that the ache in his heart would immediately lessen. But it hurt more than ever, and his earlier exhaustion had doubled. He sunk down to sit on the pavement, for once not caring about the pristine condition of his clothing, and leaned his head against the blasted pillar.

He was still sitting in the same position two hours later when Anathema called to tell him that Newt was going to be okay, that it was only a mild concussion but they were going to need to keep him overnight for observation.

“So you can head home now,” she said. “Thank you so much for staying, and for all your help earlier. You and Mr. Crowley made a great team.”

Aziraphale fought the urge to sigh as he stared up at the inky, starless sky.

“Yes, I suppose we did.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brain injuries really aren't a joke, kids. Listen to your Uncle Crowley on this one.
> 
> That said, the author in no way endorses his practice of hitting on medical professionals in order to obtain quicker/better service.


	10. we were meant to be, supposed to be (but we lost it)

**April 1, 2004**

Aziraphale shivered and eyed the darkening horizon warily. “A bit chilly for a picnic, isn’t it?” he asked. Though they had been granted a brief reprieve from rain, the skies were still grey and the air felt cold and damp against his skin.

“Nah, perfect day for it. Got the whole place to ourselves,” Crowley said, gesturing to the empty lawns of St. James’ Park. He patted a space on the blanket beside himself, which Aziraphale dutifully lowered himself onto.

He spent the better part of a minute trying to find a comfortable position to sit in, preferably one that wouldn’t wrinkle his clothing too much. Once satisfied, he took a quick peek at his pocketwatch and grimaced. “Darling, not that I don’t appreciate the gesture, but I really do have to get back to the shop sooner rather than later.”

“No you don’t,” Crowley said, pulling a selection of cheeses from the picnic basket. “You’ve been working too hard lately, I barely see you. Shop can stay closed for an afternoon.”

Aziraphale frowned and selected a piece of smoked Gouda. It wasn’t an untrue statement, he had been working ridiculous hours as of late. He was in the process of rebranding the shop as A.Z. Fell & Co., which turned out to be much more difficult than he had expected. (He had intended to keep the original name as a tribute to Elsie, but confused customers kept asking about it and it hurt too much to have to talk to strangers about his dear friend so often.) Between running the day-to-day operations of the shop and struggling with HMRC over the changes to his tax filings, he was averaging fifteen hour work days, and he couldn’t afford to hire an assistant at the moment. But in all fairness, Crowley had always made time for him, even when Ninth Circle was first opening. 

“Besides, it’s been ages since our last picnic,” Crowley said, popping a grape into his own mouth. “When was the last one, New Zealand?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “No, it was the day trip we took to that little town near Oxford.”

“That’s it. What was that place called, Tedshire? Tentpole?”

“Something like that.” Aziraphale looked down at his trousers, which were beginning to wrinkle. “Elsie was with us that day.”

It had been a lovely trip, all sunshine and birdsong. Elsie had wanted to go antiquing in the village; afterwards they’d found a charming little apple orchard that seemed to be made for picnicking. 

“Right, I forgot that bit,” Crowley said with a sigh. He reached out and gave Aziraphale’s hand a soft squeeze.

Aziraphale squeezed back, not wanting him to feel guilty for bringing it up. Elsie’s loss was still fresh and raw for him, but he didn’t need to be treated with kid gloves. He popped another piece of cheese into his mouth just to demonstrate this (nothing made Crowley worry more than Aziraphale not having an appetite).

Apparently somewhat satisfied by this performance, Crowley leaned back and propped himself up on his elbows. “So I don’t suppose you saw today’s paper?” he asked in a strangely faux-casual tone.

Aziraphale snorted. “No, but I wouldn’t suppose you did either.” 

“I did, paid for it and everything,” Crowley replied. To illustrate his point he reached into the picnic basket and fished out the paper in question. He handed it to Aziraphale with a flourish, tapping a black-painted fingernail against the main headline.

**GAY COUPLES TO GET JOINT RIGHTS**

_Gay and lesbian couples are to be given the chance to get similar legal rights to married couples under a new Civil Partnership Bill. The Bill gives the legal rights to same-sex couples who register their partnership at a civil ceremony..._

“‘S kind of like marriage,” Crowley said. “Not quite the same, but it’s legal recognition and all that jazz.” 

“Hmm, sounds like it.” Aziraphale scanned the article, trying to absorb the legislative language. He hadn’t read the paper in several months, and it looked like he had quite a lot to catch up on.

“So what do you think?”

Aziraphale was still reading, hadn’t taken his eyes off the paper. “What?”

“How about it?”

“How about what?”

Crowley huffed a small laugh. “Aziraphale.”

“Wha—oh. Oh!” Aziraphale lowered the paper to look at Crowley, who had a small velvet box in his hand. Nestled in its center was a ring, a smart silver band edged with gold. He’d removed his sunglasses and was beaming a bright soppy grin which stood in stark contrast to his tough punked-up exterior.

Aziraphale’s face was frozen, his lips parted in a perfect O shape as he fought to corral his thoughts, which were trying to sprint in nine different directions at once. He tried to speak, but only managed to stutter out a tiny “but…”

Crowley rolled his eyes, though he was still smiling affectionately. “You’re gonna make me do the whole down-on-one-knee thing, aren’t you? Shoulda known you wouldn’t let me get off that easy. Alright then.”

Aziraphale watched as Crowley shifted into a kneeling position and once again held out the ring box. “Aziraphale Fell, will you enter into a civil partnership with me?”

Aziraphale was still frozen. Surely Crowley couldn’t be serious. This had to be another one of his jokes (though an elaborate one at that). Or if he was serious, what would a civil partnership even look like? He hadn’t gotten the chance to finish reading the article. What would they tell people, what would it mean for them? How would it change their relationship?

Crowley’s smile began to waver. “Angel?”

“I, I must say, you caught me by surprise,” Aziraphale said, offering a weak smile. 

“Seriously? I’ve been glued to the news all week, haven’t been able to turn away. That didn’t strike you as out of character for me?”

Aziraphale shrugged helplessly. “I thought you were just finally taking an interest in current events.”

“Current events my—“ Crowley shook his head, cutting himself off. “Okay, surprise or no, what do you say?”

Aziraphale could feel his face flushing and his pulse beginning to race. Suddenly the damp air felt heavy, too thick to be able to fit properly into his lungs. He’d never had a panic attack before, but he assumed this must be what one felt like. “It’s, well it’s…”

“It’s a yes or no question,” Crowley said. His smile had now completely vanished, and his outstretched hands were beginning to shake. 

“But it’s not that simple-”

“It is.” Crowley shut the box and fell back into a seated position. “I’m deeply, stupidly in love with you and want to spend the rest of my life with you. And I would very much like to rent an ill-fitting tux and stand in front of our friends and God as I declare that to the world. I don’t see what could be simpler.”

“Crowley, don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

Aziraphale closed his eyes and took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “You always do this, you say something devastatingly romantic that makes me swoon and lose all sense of reason.”

“So now making the love of my life swoon is a crime? Duly noted.”

“There’s no need for sarcasm.”

Crowley dragged his hands through his hair and made a small frustrated grunt. “Well what is there a need for then? What’s this all about?”

“I just, I’d never even considered the possibility!” Aziraphale cried. “It’s not like I sat around dreaming of a white wedding when I was a child, I thought I was going to be a priest—“

Crowley’s eyes widened. “No,” he said softly. Aziraphale didn’t know what the right response was in this situation, but he now knew the one he’d given was precisely the wrong one. Crowley’s face looked ashen, as if the bottom had just dropped out of his entire world. “No, Aziraphale, please,” he rasped in a strange, unfamiliar voice. “Don’t, don't think about that. Angel, I thought we were done with all that. Ancient history, gone and forgotten, yeah?” 

Aziraphale felt a spark of anger flare in his chest. “That ancient history is _my_ history! I gave up my entire world to be with you Crowley, and I don’t regret it for a minute, but it’s still a part of who I am-“ 

Crowley reached out and grasped his forearm. “See, but that’s exactly what I’m saying, after all that, after everything we’ve been through, this shouldn’t even be a question!”

Aziraphale was dizzy trying to follow the train of this argument. “But then why is there a need for the question at all? Why does it matter? Aren’t you happy with the way things are?” He stopped himself before he could add _Aren’t you happy with me, as is? Is this not enough for you?_ The old spectered fears that had clung in the back of his mind for years, whispers of doubt that only made their presence known in the dead, anxious dark of night. They had been so young when they first met, so muddled and inexperienced. Despite their slightly rocky beginnings, or perhaps because of them, Aziraphale had always felt the need to look over their shoulders, keep watch for the sword of Damocles that was surely hanging over their heads. From the moment Crowley pulled the car away from Allen Hall, it had felt like their happiness was somehow stolen, that there was another shoe just waiting to drop. 

And apparently it just had. 

“I _am_ happy, that’s why I want to do this,” Crowley said slowly. “It’s what people do, make vows to each other. If it doesn’t matter to you, then why are you so opposed to the idea?”

“Why do you want to change things if you’re already happy?” Aziraphale shot back. “And anyway, this is completely out of the blue! I’m not spontaneous, I like to look before I leap. You go too fast for me Crowley, I-“

“Too fast for you?” Crowley dropped his arm. “Too fast for you? Oh that’s, that’s terrific. Really, really brilliant, angel.” He ran his hands through his hair again, causing it to stand on end in an absurd way. “We’ve been together for nearly fourteen years, how much more fucking time do you need?” 

“Oh, you know that’s not what I meant—”

“Isn’t it? Then pray tell, angel, what _did_ you mean?”

Aziraphale didn’t know what he meant by it. He couldn’t articulate the dozens of emotions that were currently roiling in the pit of his stomach; all he could do was shrug helplessly and stare down at his twisting hands. There was a small hangnail on his thumb, just a tiny sliver of ragged white skin. He pulled at it and felt a bright sharp sting of pain as it came loose, leaving behind a jewel-bright bead of blood.

“You can’t keep pushing me away forever,” Crowley said quietly. 

Aziraphale’s head snapped up as he registered the cracking, broken tone of his voice. Without the usual barrier of his sunglasses Crowley’s tears were on full display.

“It’s one thing to not want to kiss me or take my hand in public, I get that. But Christsakes angel, this?” He jabbed a finger at the wrinkled paper with its taunting headline. “Things are changing. It’s not the same as when we were first starting out, you know that as well as I do. But still you’re afraid to even stand in front of a justice of the peace and say you love me?”

He stood, jamming his sunglasses back on his face. Aziraphale reached out to grab his sleeve but he moved just out of reach.

“Dearest, can’t we just talk about this?”

Crowley shook his head and stuck his hands in his pockets. “I’m done talking, angel. I’m done.”

And with that, he stalked off back to the Volkswagen, leaving Aziraphale alone with the picnic basket and the now-wrinkled newspaper. He sat in silence for several minutes, trying to process what had just happened. 

They had fought many times in the past, but Crowley had never walked away before. He’d always had a “Don’t go to bed angry, stay up and fight” attitude, and insisted that they were on their own side, they were a team, that there wasn’t anything they couldn’t figure out together. 

But perhaps that wasn’t quite true.

As Aziraphale went to pack up the sad remains of their lunch he noticed that there was a particularly nice bottle of champagne hidden in the bottom of the basket, along with a small box of chocolate-covered strawberries. Evidence of Crowley’s hopes, of his expectations for how this afternoon was supposed to go. Aziraphale’s eyes welled with tears as he shoved the grapes and packages of cheese on top of them, effectively hiding them from sight. 

The strawberries would stay in their container for far too long and get unceremoniously binned after their scarlet tops shriveled and grew grey-blue fur; the champagne would later get shoved to the back of a cupboard and forgotten for another fifteen years.

That evening, after the longest cab ride of Aziraphale’s life, they fought some more, and Crowley ended up sleeping on the sofa. In the morning, the fighting began anew. Aziraphale’s hesitation had torn something deep and integral within their relationship, and fourteen years of old hurts and un-aired grievances came spilling out. Every cancelled dinner, every perceived slight was dragged out and brought to light, as if they’d both unwittingly been keeping score for the entire duration of their relationship. Eventually the fighting just devolved into petty insults and name-calling. They’d been together for nearly fourteen years, and they both knew each other’s flaws and weaknesses as well as their own.

Man-child. 

_Prissy bastard._

Vulgar snake. 

_Pompous, holier-than-thou twat._

Crude, cocky ignoramus. 

_Closet case._

Two weeks later, Crowley and Alastor moved out. Aziraphale came home that evening to discover the flat half empty, physical evidence of the new Crowley-shaped hole in his life. The terrarium was gone, as was the turntable and record collection. The entertainment system, the plants, the reproduction of the Mona Lisa, the gaudy throne Crowley had found on that electronic bay computer site, the ancient copies of _Car and Driver_ , every dark-colored item of clothing in the wardrobe — all of it, gone.

Aziraphale began to tremble as the oppressive emptiness of the flat sank in. He was 34 years old and had never lived alone before; he’d gone from his mother’s house to boarding school to the seminary to Crowley’s flat. For the past fourteen years his home had been just that — a home. There had been laughter and warmth and birthdays and forehead kisses and cups of tea and slow-dancing in the kitchen, and now there was nothing. Nothing except a half-empty flat echoing with memories, and the deep, soul-crushing realization that Aziraphale has just made the biggest mistake of his life. 

“What have I done?” he whispered, though he knew full well there was no one around to answer. “What the hell have I done?” 

He collapsed onto the sofa and clutched at a throw pillow that still smelled vaguely of Crowley, hurting too much to even cry. He stayed like that for hours, trembling and whispering _what have I done?_ over and over again like a mantra until he fell into a restless, fitful sleep.

He ended up sleeping on that sofa every night for three months, unable to stomach the thought of sleeping in the same bed they had shared for so many years. (Eventually practicality won out; the sofa left his back a mess and his chiropractor had to beg him to correct his sleeping situation.)

Even years later, Aziraphale could not explain what had happened to him that day in the park.

He should have said yes. He should have shouted his yes to the heavens, should have tackled Crowley back onto the soggy grass and snogged him absolutely senseless. Instead, he said _wait._ He said _let’s talk about this._ He said _slow down._ The moment it had mattered most, his courage had failed him, and he had let an old phantom shadow of a doubt work its way back into his mind. Like a trick knee, an old war injury that heals but suddenly acts up again in bad weather.

And Crowley — his dear, good, beloved Crowley — had been its victim. He had been so patient for so long, but that patience had grown far too thin. Aziraphale had gone one step too far and it had cracked beneath his weight, sending them both down into the icy depths. 

He assumed that time would heal all wounds. After a certain number of mornings waking up alone, after the scent of cinnamon and tobacco and ink faded from the flat, after Crowley had started nonchalantly coming to the shop to drop off misdelivered mail and acting like they’d never been anything more than neighbors — surely after all that, the aching loneliness and grief and regret would lessen. 

And to an extent, it did. In time he was able to laugh again, was able to look back through their old photo albums and smile at the memories. After the first few years he was even able to work on wedding arrangements without wanting to vomit. He was able to build a life for himself and learn how to live alone, without his life revolving around God or a partner.

But it never went away, not the way he wanted it to. It was always there, just beneath the surface, waiting to make its presence known.

Curiously enough, even with all that pain and the constant reminders of his now-unrequited love, it never once occurred to him to close the shop or move. Maybe it was out of loyalty to Elsie, maybe it was the Catholic guilt making him feel like he needed to be punished. But more than anything, it was out of a deep, spiritual need to keep the promise he had made to himself and a sleeping Crowley so many years before.

_Entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee. For whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know y'all have been speculating on this in the comments on previous chapters, so congratulations to anyone who had money on "the Civil Partnership Act of 2004" being the reason for their breakup. 
> 
> Also the headline/lede quoted here was taken from a BBC article from the day of the announcement: http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/uk_news/politics/3584285.stm . (I tried to find scans of physical newspapers from that day/the day after but had no luck)
> 
> Title taken from Avril Lavigne's "Happy Ending" (I couldn't resist)


	11. it's a nice day for a white wedding, it's a nice day to start again

**2019**

Crowley stood on the sidewalk and stared up at the front of the event hall, chewing the inside of his cheek. _Not too late to back out and go home_ , he thought glumly.

It was a plain, nondescript building with a clean white plaster facade, not really anything to write home about. But it had clearly received the full A.Z. Fell treatment — thick, luscious garlands of jewel-toned autumn flowers ran above the door frame and down the railings of the front stairs, clusters of fat ivory candles had been placed on each step, flickering against the approaching twilight. Crowley could even hear the soft strains of a harp coming from somewhere deep inside the building. 

Before he had time to make up his mind about leaving, the Them rushed out the front door and down the steps. 

“Mr. Crowley, you came!” 

“‘Course I did,” he grumbled. “I was invited, didn’t have anything else on.”

This wasn’t, strictly speaking, a true statement. When he’d received his invitation — by way of thanks, for his help in getting Newt to the hospital — he’d had to cancel several appointments, which was more of a fringe benefit than anything.

“What’re all you doing here anyway?” he asked. “Don’t you have school or something?”

“It’s Saturday,” Pepper replied.

“We’re the ushers,” Wensleydale added.

“We helped with the flower arrangements too,” Adam said. “And I made you a button-ear, since I figured you wouldn’t already have one.” He extended the boutonnière, a simple spray of forget-me-nots tied with white ribbon.

Crowley raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Baby blue isn’t exactly one of my colors, kid. I’m more of an autumn.”

Adam fixed him with his best wide-eyed look of innocence, the one that had earned him so many easements in bedtimes and extra scoops of ice cream from his doting parents and grandparents. “But I made it for you. Mr. Fell has been teaching me, I thought you’d like it.”

Crowley groaned. “Fine, fine.” He bent down, allowing Adam to fix the boutonnière to his lapel. “Those puppy dog eyes of yours are a hell of a weapon, kid. I’d tell you to use your powers for good, but where’s the fun in that?”

Adam grinned. “Just don’t tell Mr. Fell I gave it to you, I sort of technically didn’t really ask if I could use those flowers from his private stash.”

“‘Atta boy,” Crowley said, ruffling Adam’s hair. “Don’t suppose you could direct me to the bar?”

“It’s not open yet. But if you come right this way, we’ll show you to your seat,” Brian said, using his most dignified grown-up voice. “Bride’s side or groom’s?”

Behind his sunglasses, Crowley rolled his eyes. “Surprise me.”

On the other side of the building, Aziraphale was nervously flitting around a makeshift green room helping Anathema get ready. He’d found himself inducted as an honorary member of the bridal party, which was made up of two of Anathema’s equally witchy friends, a Pulsifer cousin, and Madam Tracy. He didn’t know whether to be touched by the gesture or offended by the idea that he was just ‘one of the girls’. More than anything he was just anxious and exhausted; his sleep the night before had been interrupted several times by an increasingly distressing succession of stress dreams about all the different ways this day could go wrong.

Anathema looked radiant, as was to be expected. Her dress was long-sleeved and high-necked, all antique lace and tiny Victorian buttons. She’d opted to wear a flower crown of Aziraphale’s design, a perfect circle of tiny white tearoses threaded through with eucalyptus buds. The ring finger of her left hand now bore exactly one and a half Celtic knots as evidence of the aborted tattoo experiment (Crowley had offered to finish it so long as Newt stayed far away from the shop but she’d declined, saying that she liked it better that way). It was a lovely ensemble, and so very her. Not that he would ever admit it, but Aziraphale was more than a little worried that Newt might faint dead away when he saw her. 

“Zira, the train is fine,” Anathema said, waving his hands away from where they’d been fussing with the fabric. “Please, just relax for a few minutes. I want you to enjoy yourself today, you’ve earned it, both of you,” she said, gesturing to him and Madam Tracy. “Seriously, you guys are the best, I don’t know what I would have done without you.” She pulled them both into a tight group hug. 

Aziraphale stiffened; he didn’t find himself on the receiving end of many hugs these days. After a few tense moments his posture softened, and he raised his arms to envelop both women. “It was our pleasure, my dear,” he said gently. 

And in that moment, he meant it.

**********

It was a beautiful ceremony. Newt didn’t faint, any would-be objectors held their peace, and after the couple exchanged their self-written vows, there wasn’t a dry eye to be found in the entire hall. Even Crowley was touched, though he never would have admitted to it. He’d never been so grateful for his sunglasses, which hid a scant few tears from public view.

The reception was lovely too. Aziraphale and Madam Tracy had decked out the simple room with a dreamy array of twinkle lights and hundreds upon hundreds of flowers — black dahlias, chocolate cosmos, pale mauve roses, and stark white anemones against sprays of eucalyptus leaves, all peppered through with tiny clusters of dried lotus pods. Drinks turned to dinner, which turned to dancing, and by all accounts it seemed as though everyone was having a wonderful time.

Well, almost everyone.

The Them had posted up at their table in the corner with Crowley and Aunt Agnes, who had already read everyone’s palm and was now excitedly telling Crowley about her stock portfolio. Much to the children’s disappointment, Aziraphale had yet to even sit down; he kept flitting around the room adjusting the flower arrangements and offering to refresh people’s drinks.

Adam glanced between the two men, feeling a growing sense of frustration. They hadn’t so much as looked at each other all night, which was entirely unacceptable. He didn’t know much about love, but he did know that it was supposed to involve a whole lot more eye contact.

Pepper leaned over Brian so she could whisper in Adam’s ear. “I think it’s time for the next part of your plan.”

Adam nodded and stood. “We’re uh, just gonna go to the bathroom,” he told Crowley and Agnes. 

“Whatever,” Crowley muttered. Agnes didn’t even glance their way or pause for breath.

The Them picked their way through the drunk and dancing couples, just barely avoiding some cheek pinches from a few overzealous Pulsifer aunts, eventually reaching the DJ station.

Adam leaned up and whispered something to the DJ, who nodded. The song faded out, and after a few moments Freddie Mercury began crooning the opening _ooh ooh ooohh_ s of “You Take My Breath Away.”

Adam swaggered back to his friends, grinning from ear to ear. “Apparently this is their song,” he informed them. “Madam Tracy told me. Just watch, they’re gonna get all gooey and sentimental.”

The Them looked on, waiting for Adam’s prediction to come true. But neither man seemed to even notice the music change; Aziraphale was completely consumed with fixing a centerpiece that had begun to lose petals, and Crowley just continued to sulk in the corner, nursing a drink while Agnes rambled on.

“Adam, I don’t think the plan is working,” Pepper said after a minute. “They haven’t talked at all today, and Mr. Crowley already looks like he wants to go home.” 

“That’s just how his face looks,” Adam said, though he’d been thinking the exact same thing. He’d originally thought if he could just get them both to the reception, things would slide into place. They’d both have a few drinks, Mr. Fell would see Mr. Crowley’s boutonnière and think he was trying to send a message, and then their song would come on and they wouldn’t have any choice but to fall into each other’s arms. That’s how it always happened in the movies, at least.

Just then, he felt a warm hand on his shoulder and looked up to see Madam Tracy, whose magenta lips were quirked up in a sly smile.

“I’ll take it from here, dears,” she said quietly. Then, louder: “Coo-ee! Aziraphale darling, Shadwell’s not one for dancing. Do you mind?” she asked, holding out her hand.

Aziraphale looked up from the drooping dahlia he had been trying to set right. “Hmm? Oh, of course. Why not?”

As they made their way out to the dancefloor, Madam Tracy turned her head and gave a conspiratorial wink to the Them.

“I must warn you, I’m really not much of a dancer,” Aziraphale said, settling one hand on her waist.

“I’m sure that’s not true,” she replied, taking his free hand in her own. 

It was, as she learned moments later, very true indeed. 

“So this is all very, ouch-”

“Oh I’m so sorry my dear, I-“

“Quite alright, I think that one was my fault,” she lied. “As I was saying, this is all very romantic, don’t you think?”

Aziraphale chanced a glance away from his feet. “Oh, er, I suppose so. The happy couple seem to be enjoying themselves, if nothing else.” He inclined his head towards Anathema and Newt, who were dancing in the center of the floor, completely wrapped up in each other and blissfully unaware of the world around them. Aziraphale swallowed and looked back down. 

“Oh don’t be modest, you’ve created a devastatingly romantic setting,” she said, looking over his shoulder. “The lights, the music, the flowers. Really just makes you want to cuddle up close with someone you love, don’t you agree?”

Aziraphale made a noncommittal hum, not really processing what she was saying. He was so focused on not stepping on the toes of her sparkly gold stilettos that he didn’t realize she’d taken the lead, nor did he realize she was very determinedly waltzing them over to their table in the corner. 

“Oh dear, Shadwell doesn’t look too happy,” she said suddenly, looking over at Aziraphale’s shoulder once more. “Guess he still hasn’t warmed to you.” Sure enough, the Reverend Shadwell was glowering from the bar, pointing a finger at Aziraphale and mouthing some completely indecipherable threat. She hadn’t had to orchestrate this part at all, Shadwell’s jealousy was something she could set her watch by.

“Crowley, be a dear and cut in for me.” It was less of a question and more of a command; before either of the men had time to react, she had pulled Crowley to his feet and replaced herself with him. (If nothing else, her career had made her quite adept at being able to manipulate men’s bodies.)

And just like that she was gone, leaving a bewildered Crowley and Aziraphale staring at their clasped hands. If they’d had the ability to register anything besides their own current proximity, they would have seen Madam Tracy give high-fives to each of the Them before wrapping her arms around her husband and planting a kiss on his reddened cheek. 

At the table, Agnes cleared her throat. “Save the next dance for me, Mr. Crowley,” she said, giving him a cheeky wink. 

Crowley froze. His left hand, which Madam Tracy had set in the curve of Aziraphale’s waist, gripped at the beige tweed jacket. “Er, it might be a while,” he said, casting a pleading glance at Aziraphale.

Aziraphale’s stomach turned; Crowley knew he could never say no to that look. He cleared his throat and adjusted his grip on the other man’s hand, aiming for nonchalance. “Ah, yes,” he said. “It’s been a while, we’ve got some catching up to do.”

Agnes glanced between the two of them, a slow smile spreading on her face. “Yes, you certainly do,” she said quietly, almost to herself, as Crowley steered Aziraphale away.

Once they were a good distance away from the table, the pair fell into a slow, easy rhythm. Aziraphale looked down at his feet, very determined not to step on Crowley’s toes. He needn’t have bothered though — Crowley seemed to instinctively know where he needed to step. He skirted each misstep and improperly-timed sway with a well-practiced ease that made the florist’s heart ache. He’d always been good at that, knowing how to zig just before Aziraphale zagged. 

_So please don't go, don’t leave me here all by myself. I get ever so lonely from time to time…_ Freddie crooned.

“It was a lovely ceremony,” Aziraphale said, unable to stand the relative silence.

“Suppose so. Flowers were nice.”

“Oh. Ah, thank you,” Aziraphale said shyly. “The dried lotus pods were a bit of an odd choice, but Anathema insisted upon them. I believe her exact words were ‘they’re gross and creepy and we have to have them’.”

“Sounds about right. Spooky kid, that one.”

“Oh, she’s really a darling girl,” Aziraphale said, shifting his hand on Crowley’s shoulder. “Newton is a dear as well, I believe they’ll be very happy together.”

Crowley made a noncommittal grunt.

“Although I do believe this is the last time I play wedding planner,” Aziraphale prattled on, trying to fill the space of what would have otherwise been an awkward silence. “I daresay the whole thing’s taken years off my life.” He gave a vague approximation of a laugh.

Crowley flashed a humorless smile. “Bit ironic though, isn’t it? You ending up as a wedding planner, after everything.” He said it so casually, as if he wasn’t plunging a dagger between the other man’s ribs. 

Aziraphale’s feet stuttered to a halt, leaving them stock still in the middle of the dance floor. “Crowley,” he said, voice coming out in a strangled whisper. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what? Just making an observation.”

“You know damn well how much that hurts me, why would you say it here?” He gestured to the hall, where the other dancers were beginning to leave them a wide berth. 

“On this, the day of your daughter’s wedding?” Crowley drawled, doing a truly atrocious Marlon Brando impression.

Aziraphale’s eyes began to well up with tears. “You’re impossible.” He disentangled himself from Crowley’s embrace and strode out of the room, breaking into a run once he reached the hallway. He dashed down the stairs, narrowly avoiding a collision with a server, and threw the doors open, only to gasp as the chilly late-fall air hit his skin. He immediately wrapped his arms around himself, wishing he’d thought to grab his coat on his way out. Going back inside to retrieve it didn’t seem like an option though, not when he was so close to tears.

He stared out at the dark, mostly-deserted street and chewed his lip. He couldn’t just leave; he was supposed to supervise the clean up process after the last of the guests filed out. Perhaps a quick walk around the block would do him good, clear his head enough for him to be able to make it through the rest of the night. He made his way down the stairs, but stopped at the bottom when he noticed that one of the garlands had come loose from the balustrade. He reached down to grab it just as the doors swung open, bathing the stairs and sidewalk in warm amber light. 

Crowley faltered at the top of the steps when he saw Aziraphale. He made a face, then stormed down the steps. “For the record, I wasn’t following you,” he said, punctuating each word with a loud stomp of his Doc Martens. “Just going home.” 

Aziraphale nodded, trying to calm his racing heartbeat. His right hand clung to the garland as if it were a long, floral lifeline. A small thorn dug into his palm, but he didn’t dare let go. 

Crowley sneered as he reached the sidewalk and made a right, turning his back on Aziraphale. (Forgetting, of course, that the Bentley was parked in the opposite direction.) It looked as if he was about to storm off into the night, but he stopped in his tracks after just a few steps. He didn’t turn around, and for several long seconds he simply stood with his hands flexing at his sides. Eventually, he spoke.

“It should have been us.”

Aziraphale blinked. “What?”

Crowley squared his shoulders and turned. His expression was hard, but Aziraphale could see that there was far more pain contained within it than there was anger.

“It should. Have been. Us.”

Aziraphale’s heart didn’t know whether to sink or soar, and instead just gave a middling general lurch. “What do you mean?” 

Crowley scowled and jerked a thumb back towards the hall.

“You know damn well what I mean. That should’ve been us back there, with the sappy speeches and the drunk relatives and the happily ever afters. We should’ve been the lovesick idiots inside, slow-dancing to some godawful Celine Dion song, not the miserable bastards out in the cold.”

Another twist of the knife. Aziraphale clutched the garland tighter, feeling the stems breaking beneath his fingers. “Crowley, please.”

“Please what?” Crowley threw his arms out wide, making a grand, if unclear, gesture. “Just stating a fact.”

“Don’t you think I know that already?” Aziraphale snapped. The bedraggled garland fell to the sidewalk and was instantly crushed beneath his heel. “Don’t you think I know that would have been us, if I hadn’t been such a cowardly idiot? If I hadn’t been so stupid as to let you get away?” The admission slipped out completely inadvertently, as if something deep inside him had cracked wide open and was now spilling its contents into the empty air.

To his credit, Crowley looked genuinely taken aback. He froze, and Aziraphale could almost see the prepared snarky retort die on his tongue. “You...what?”

“And I know you delight in tormenting me, coming into the shop and serving as a constant reminder of the worst mistake of my life.” Aziraphale added, unable to stop himself now. He laughed bitterly, swiping the back of his hand against the tears that had begun to stream down his cheeks. “Admit it, whenever you see a piece of my post mixed in with yours it gives you a little thrill, knowing you can come and pour more salt in the wound-“

“What’re you-”

Aziraphale was crying in earnest now. “But I’m not as strong as you Crowley. I haven’t been able to move on like you have, and I suspect I never will. So please, stop. Just stop. Leave me be.” He wrapped his arms around his middle, hugging himself tightly to try and reign in the sobs that were now wracking his frame.

Crowley scrubbed a hand down his face. “Oh for the love,” he muttered into his palm. “You’re so clever. How can somebody as clever as you be so stupid?”

Aziraphale didn’t have a response to that. He simply turned away, gripping the edge of the balustrade for support.

It was quiet for nearly a solid minute, and Aziraphale wondered if Crowley had left. Then a pair of warm, achingly familiar hands were turning him around.

Crowley had removed his sunglasses and was now gazing intently, almost fondly, at Aziraphale. 

“Aziraphale, for the past ten years I have been paying the postman to regularly slip me a piece of your mail _by accident_ just so I’d have an excuse to come into the shop.”

The florist’s train of thought came to a shuddering, screeching halt as he tried to process both Crowley’s admission and the fact he wasn’t removing his hands from Aziraphale’s shoulders. “W-what? Why?” he asked, dumbstruck.

Crowley shrugged. “First few years I was just waiting, figuring you’d come around eventually. Then I realized you weren’t going to, and things got kinda bad for a while. Think I slept through all of 2007 or so. Then finally I realized I couldn’t not have you in my life, even if you were just rolling your eyes at me and telling me to leave.”

Aziraphale’s mind was whirring, trying desperately to understand how this could possibly be true. He flashed back to all the times Crowley had popped into the shop, and in hindsight, he realized how flimsy some of the excuses had been. At the time he’d been so caught up in his own pain and anxiety, it hadn’t ever occurred to him that a misplaced linens catalogue really didn’t necessitate an in-person visit. 

He opened and closed his mouth several times, looking for all the world like a large, tartan-clad codfish. “But…” he trailed off, brow furrowed. “But I broke your heart,”

Crowley shrugged. “I mean, yeah. But it’s still yours, always has been. Angel, I meant it when I said you had me from _oh I gave away my coat_ ,” he said, raising his voice in a vague impression of Aziraphale. “You’re stuffy and uptight and can be more than a bit of a bastard sometimes but there will never, _ever_ be anyone else for me. It’s you, and it will always be you.”

Aziraphale’s tears had begun to freely flow again. How many times had he imagined this moment, prayed to hear those very words? It was almost too much — to have wanted something so badly and then have it fall out of the sky and into his lap. “But...but you always seem so nonchalant. I thought you were over it, that you’d moved on.” He didn’t know why he was still protesting, still trying to provide reasons for Crowley to feel otherwise.

Crowley sighed. “Angel, you don’t just get over something like what we had. That’s some once-in-a-lifetime stuff. You know that, right?” He gave Aziraphale’s shoulders a gentle squeeze, still maintaining that last bit of distance between their bodies.

Aziraphale nodded. “I...I suppose I do.” Tentatively, he raised his shaking hands to cup Crowley’s elbows, stroking his thumbs across the soft fabric of his suit jacket. He needed to reach out, to touch and prove that this was really real. He had dreamed this so many times, it didn’t seem like it could ever be anything but a dream at this point. But Crowley was here, he was warm and solid beneath Aziraphale’s hands, and he wasn’t shying away from the touch. 

“Oh my love, I’m so sorry,” Aziraphale said, voice barely more than a whisper. The simple apology seemed so weak in the face of all that had happened between the two of them, but he knew if he spent a dozen years searching for the right words he’d still never find them. There just weren’t any words big enough for what he felt, they were so far beyond articulation. 

Crowley looked at him for several long moments with an inscrutable look on his face. For a moment Aziraphale wondered if he was reconsidering, if his own attempt at apology had fallen too flat. But then Crowley loosened his grip, sliding his hands across Aziraphale’s shoulders and pulling him into a tight hug. 

“Me too, angel,” he murmured, pressing his lips to the florist’s blond curls. “Me too.”

Aziraphale returned the embrace immediately, tucking his face into the crook of Crowley’s neck and inhaling deeply. He smelled slightly different than Aziraphale remembered, likely due to the lack of tobacco, but the scent made his knees weak with relief all the same.

They stayed like that for several long moments, until the front door of the hall swung open, illuminating the pair once more. A couple of women that Aziraphale vaguely recognized as Device guests stepped out and began making their way down the stairs, talking quietly amongst themselves. One of the women glanced in their direction and quirked an eyebrow. 

Aziraphale tightened his grip slightly. The significance of the moment was not lost on him — though it was an innocent, potentially platonic embrace, it was more physical affection than he ever would have felt comfortable showing in public fifteen years earlier. For the most part, Elsie had been the only other person who had ever seen them kiss or even hold hands; Aziraphale always claimed it was for safety, but they’d all known that was only a half truth. But here, in this moment, he didn’t give a damn who saw them. He would have dropped to his knees and taken Crowley in his mouth right there in front of the event hall, if it meant he would stay. What was that perceived safety worth, if it meant continuing to live without his love?

_No more hiding_ , he thought. _No more._

He took a deep breath and shifted back so that he could properly see Crowley, who was looking at him with such naked adoration that it made his heart clench in his chest.

He stroked his thumbs over the fabric of Crowley’s suit jacket again. “Could we…” he took another deep breath, steeling himself. “Could we try again? I’d like very much for us to be...well, I’d like us to be an _us_ again.” 

It wasn’t a particularly eloquent statement, but that didn’t seem to matter. Several emotions flickered across Crowley’s face all at once, and in that moment Aziraphale realized that for fifteen years, Crowley had been wanting to hear those words just as much as he himself had been wanting to speak them. 

Crowley opened his mouth to answer, then closed it. Aziraphale watched as his Adam’s apple bobbed and he struggled with his answer. “Angel,” he rasped finally. “I want that too. Christ, you have no idea how much I want that. But if we, if we do that, I have to know it’s for real. I don’t think I could handle losing you again.” He looked away, blinking back tears he would later deny. 

Aziraphale understood the hesitation acutely, and he knew if given half the chance he’d happily spend the rest of his life working to re-earn the other man’s trust. He lowered his hands to Crowley’s chest, smoothing his lapels and straightening his crooked boutonnière. 

Forget-me-nots. A symbol of good memories and true love, of lifelong connections and fidelity. A curious choice for a boutonnière; he wondered if Crowley had any idea of its significance. A tiny voice in the back of his mind told him it was a sign, the exact kind of sign he had prayed for a thousand times over. 

But as Crowley looked back at him, eyes full of equal parts fear and hope, Aziraphale realized he couldn’t care less if it was a sign. A sign would indicate fate, some sort of ineffable plan that they were just taking part in. This was free will, a clear choice to be made. 

And this time, he was choosing Crowley.

“What if,” he began, ignoring how much his voice had started to shake, “What if I answered your question?”

Crowley frowned. “What question?”

“The one you asked me fifteen years ago. I never did give you an answer.” Aziraphale took a deep breath, squeezing Crowley’s lapels. “If the offer still stands, my answer is yes.”

After a few moments of shocked silence, a slow smile began to spread across Crowley’s face, bright and teasing. “Yes what, angel? Use your words.” 

Aziraphale couldn’t even begin to feign annoyance. He felt impossibly light, as if he had just shucked off a heavy burden he hadn’t known he was carrying. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”

“Hang on, who said anything about marriage? I distinctly remember asking you for a civil partnership.” Crowley’s further attempts at teasing were terribly thwarted by the radiant grin threatening to cleft his face in two. “Marriage seems a bit fast, don’t you think?”

Aziraphale shook his head slightly. “On the contrary, darling,” he said, relishing the taste of the endearment on his tongue. “I’d say it’s long overdue.” With that, he tugged on Crowley’s lapels and pulled him into a kiss. Crowley made a soft sound in the back of his throat and wrapped his arms around Aziraphale’s waist, pulling him in close. Aziraphale’s hands slid up and over his shoulders, closing the slight distance between them even more.

Home. There was no other way to describe it. Kissing Crowley was like coming home after a long journey, an overwhelming sense of comfort and familiarity that made him feel warm all over. It was a little bit awkward, of course, with some bumping of teeth and noses. Age had softened Aziraphale’s frame and further sharpened Crowley’s, but they still fit together like two perfectly-cut puzzle pieces. 

Eventually the kiss broke, mostly because they were both smiling too broadly to be able to continue. Crowley began pressing loose kisses all over Aziraphale’s face, across his forehead and cheeks and chin. 

Aziraphale beamed, feeling positively dizzy with joy. The ache in his chest that he had grown so accustomed to over the years had dissipated, leaving behind nothing but warmth and relief. He wrapped his arms around Crowley’s neck, threading his fingers through the fine crimson hairs at the nape. His hair was so short now, much shorter than it had ever been when they were together. Aziraphale carded his hands through it a few times experimentally, just because he could. 

He could do this now, reach out and touch and stroke and kiss and gaze adoringly, just as he had been longing to do. And he would, wherever and whenever he wanted, onlookers be damned.

Crowley planted one last kiss on the tip of his nose and let out a soft sigh. “Do I really get to marry you?” he asked quietly, eyes wide and shining with tears of joy. 

Aziraphale nodded and smiled shyly. “I take back what I said about not wanting to plan another wedding. I think I’ve got one more in me.”

Crowley tightened his arms around Aziraphale’s waist, lifting him up and spinning him around in a circle. 

Inside the hall, Madam Tracy shooed the children away from the window. “Give Mr. Fell and Mr. Crowley their privacy, won’t you?” she chided, though she herself paused for a moment to watch the delirious display of love that was occurring outside.

The Reverend Shadwell was at her side, looking perplexed. “Aye, so the great Southern pansy found himself a great Northern pansy, has he?” 

Madam Tracy smiled and shook her head. “He didn’t need to find him. He’s had him all along, whether he knew it or not.” She nudged her husband’s side affectionately. “Sound like anyone we know?”

Shadwell’s cheeks flushed. “Er, well...I suppose.”

“And you’ll officiate their wedding for them, won’t you?”

Reverend Shadwell, who had warmed considerably to Aziraphale in the past few seconds (now that he could be reasonably assured he was not competing for the retired Jezebel’s affections) nodded brusquely. “Of course, of course.” He folded his hands behind his back. “It’s about time someone made an honest man out of our Mr. Fell.”  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so, so much to all of you absolute darlings who've been commenting, I don't reply to all of them but I genuinely cherish each and every one. Y'all are too wonderful for words. 
> 
> If anyone has done any art for this story let me know so I can link it in the notes! (I will also likely screenshot it and save it to the "Things that make me ridiculously happy" folder on my phone. <3
> 
> Chapter title from Billy Idol's White Wedding, because there was no way in hell I was passing that one up.


	12. all’s well that ends well, to end up with you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! I’m so, so sorry for how long this took. I know I had promised it soon, but for some reason I had a really hard time writing this, in part because I just didn’t want to say goodbye to this verse! But now that it’s finally here, I hope you enjoy!

**Summer 2021**

The shop had been quiet all morning, likely due to the recent heat wave. The streets outside were empty, as the city’s typically insatiable appetite for shopping seemed to have been sapped by the sweltering temperatures.

This worked just fine for Aziraphale, who was perched behind the counter with his nose buried in a dog-eared copy of Persuasion.

_You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me that I am not too late, that such precious feelings are gone forever. I offer myself to you with a heart even more your own than when you broke it almost eight years and a half ago…_

It was his favorite part, and he’d be lying if he said that every time he read the book he didn’t reread Captain Wentworth’s letter several times. In years past it had always made him cry, but today it just made him smile and idly run his fingers across his left sleeve, thinking of the small forget-me-not tattoo that now graced the skin beneath it.

He had only read the passage twice through when the bell above the door rang, breaking the Austen-induced trance. 

Crowley sauntered in carrying a bag from their new favorite Thai restaurant. “Hiya angel,” he drawled, giving a lazy grin. He’d forgone a jacket that day due to the heat, which left his sinewy inked arms on full display for all to see.

Aziraphale felt a soft, sunwarmed feeling spread throughout his chest. He didn't think he would ever tire of that feeling, or the fact he was now able to do something about it. “Hello, darling,” he said, leaning across the counter to press a small kiss to Crowley’s smiling lips.

“Got us summer rolls and some of the cold sesame noodles, didn’t think we needed any more heat in here,” Crowley said, dropping the bag on the counter. 

“I couldn’t agree more.” Aziraphale stood and stretched his shoulders, wincing as his neck cracked. “Can you stay very long today? Anathema said she would bring the baby by this afternoon.”

“Oh angel, don’t tell me you volunteered us to babysit again,” Crowley groaned. “I only just managed to get the sick off the Bentley’s seats. She’s traumatized. So am I, for that matter.”

Aziraphale cocked an eyebrow and hummed. “Yes, terribly traumatized. Yet I distinctly remember you cooing over him at the time, worrying about his ‘poor widdle tummy.’”

“I did nothing of the sort,” Crowley scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest. “And I won’t stand for such blatant slander. See if I ever bring you lunch again.” He cocked a hip out, leaning against the counter with his trademark artful slouch.

“You don’t mean that,” Aziraphale said, batting his eyelashes. 

Crowley pursed his lips, clearly ready to dispute the claim. After a beat, he sighed and deflated. “No, I don’t mean that,” he muttered.

Aziraphale rocked up on his toes and pressed a kiss to Crowley’s reddened cheek. “Let me just close up, so I can give you my undivided attention.”

He circled the counter, stepping deftly over one of Dog’s chewtoys and around the small folding table Madam Tracy used to do customer’s tarot readings, wending his way to the front of the shop. Since Anathema and Newt’s wedding the shop had failed to become any less cluttered. If anything it had only grown more chaotic — bright assortments of petals and greens co-mingling with the hodgepodge of Aziraphale’s new life, evidence of the eclectic mix of individuals he had come to think of as family. It was less of a flower shop and more of a very small community center, which played host to bible study sessions and seances alike. On any given afternoon one could come in and find the Them studying for their exams, or Newt disassembling an ancient Macintosh, or Crowley feeding a frozen rat to Alastor. It was messy and confusing for customers, but it felt just right to Aziraphale. (It helped that Ninth Circle was so successful, so A.Z. Fell & Co. was generally free to operate at cost these days.)

Aziraphale flipped the sign on the front door to “Closed” and turned the key in the lock, idly glancing out the front window as he did so.

Two teenage girls were walking by, hand in hand. He smiled and started to turn away, then froze. The girl on the left, who was sporting blue hair and combat boots, looked terribly familiar. He frowned and wracked his memory trying to remember where he’d seen her before. A friend of the Them, perhaps? But no, she seemed a bit too old for that, and too young to be one of Anathema’s. He frowned and chewed his lip, trying to place her.

The girl glanced his way and grinned, giving a big wave. She nudged the other girl and said something, causing her to smile and wave too.

_Cassidy_ , his memory supplied. The girl from two summers before, who’d been so scared about her first date. His heart swelled to see her now, walking down the street hand in hand with another girl, loving out loud without fear or trepidation. 

He wondered if this was the same girl who’d received the flowers (Sarah, he remembered), or if it was someone else. He wasn’t sure which he preferred to believe — that it was Sarah and the pair had forged a bond that had lasted for over two years, or if it was someone different, and that Cassidy had become confident enough to ask other girls on dates. He supposed it didn’t matter either way, not with how brightly she was smiling. 

Cassidy said something else that made maybe-Sarah laugh and drop a kiss to her shoulder, the perfect picture of young, carefree love. They turned away from the window, once again becoming wrapped up in their own little world. Aziraphale craned his neck to watch as they rounded the corner and finally disappeared from view.

After a few moments, Crowley came up behind him and wound his arms around his middle. He placed a soft kiss on Aziraphale’s temple before resting his chin on his shoulder.

“What was that all about?” he asked.

Aziraphale shifted, settling back against Crowley’s chest. He brought his hands up to rest over Crowley’s, relishing the tiny metallic click as their wedding rings bumped against each other. From this angle he could see their reflection in the window, translucent and slightly faded. The glass softened the edges of their reflections, smoothed out the worry lines and marks of age from both their faces. In the reflection they were timeless — they looked just like they had thirty years earlier, and just like he knew they would in another thirty years. It made for quite a pretty picture; two ageless fools, loving each other in full view of the world and not caring a whit who saw.

Aziraphale sighed and shifted, allowing himself to sink deeper into Crowley’s embrace.

“That, my dear, was a happy ending.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, thank you, thank you to all of you for reading! Writing this fic has been a delightful journey, and I’m so glad you all decided to join me on it. Thank you to everyone who commented along the way, your messages have brought me so, so much joy (and at times they’ve influenced the content!) Thanks also to my lovely beta aboxfullofdarkness, who is absolutely the reason I was finally able to finish.
> 
> I’d like to give blanket permission to anyone who wants to podfic/translate/create any art based on this story, just let me know in the comments so I can link to it (and also fawn over it/you).
> 
> Title from Taylor Swift’s “Lover” (couldn’t resist)


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